Chorale of a Nautilus
by bethsaida
Summary: Sequel to Ballad of Netmakers. On the shores of Barbados, Philip and Syrena discover beginning a cross-species relationship isn't much easier with priests than with pirates.
1. Chapter 1

The port of Bridgetown was bustling with the noises of men and cargo when they disembarked. Syrena had to stand still for a moment to absorb it. Her ears filled with the clatter of laborers rolling hogshead barrels down the pier, and her senses were assaulted with the competing aromas of sugarcane and tobacco and rum. Her marvel was short-lived, however. The moment she stepped onto the dock, the wooden planks rose unnaturally beneath her feet. Philip caught her from behind with his right arm. He threw her an apologetic glance as he helped her straighten. "Sorry, I should have warned you about that. It happened to me the first time I disembarked too."

Philip raised his free hand to the ship's deck in a brief farewell, which was largely ignored. Though he did not say so aloud, she could tell the captain was not sorry to see them go. He was a superstitious man, and most of his crew shared his belief that it was bad luck to bring a woman on board. In their eyes Philip's status as a man of God only partially cancelled out that influence. Still, they had been permitted to embark. When the _Morning Mercy_ had found them on an island ten miles north of Whitecap Bay, Philip had wisely neglected to mention they were former captives of the Black Beard.

They continued down the dock slowly. Syrena was grateful to feel the rocking under her shoes lessen. She had made so much progress with walking in the three weeks before their rescue, it would have been devastating to see it all erased. As they walked Syrena craned her neck to take in the sights and sounds of the wharf. More sunbrowned men hauled in nets of raw fish, flapping and gasping their lives out, while others struggled with bunches of bananas half as tall as they were. Far more disturbing, though, were the lines of shackled men and women with skin dark as molasses. Looking more closely, she saw that some were small children. Many were completely naked, and their skin hung loosely over their ribs. Philip noticed the direction of her open staring.

"Slaves," he said quietly into her ear. "From Africa. They spent the last few months crammed in the galleys below decks. These are the ones who survived."

"Why would they take so many from their homes only to let them die?"

"The slave traders are greedy, and human life is cheap. It's no loss to them if a few dozen perish on the way." He squeezed her arm as they passed. She could hear the edge of bitterness in his voice, even though she was not looking at his face. "I wish there were something we could do, but there's not. Not here, at least."

Syrena shuddered. She had thought her own voyage to Barbados had been terrible enough; to be surrounded by seawater on all sides and yet unable to dive in, for there was always someone on deck watching. Fortunately Philip had borrowed a few buckets off the deckhands for her to splash water on her legs and face under the pretext of washing. Otherwise it would have proved fatal as well as agonizing. But compared to months trapped in a ship's hull, suffocating in a crowded outhouse of disease and starvation, her own journey had been positively luxurious.

Arm in arm they made their way to the end of the pier. When they reached the dirt roads leading into the city proper, a more genteel crowd mingled with the fruit sellers and laborers. A few colorfully dressed couples strolled with their arms linked, like she and Philip. An elderly gentleman tipped his hat to her as he walked by with his lady companion. _They think I am his wife_, she realized, feeling a small surge of elation in her chest.

"How far is it, to your mission?" she asked.

"About four miles north," Philip replied. "We don't have to go immediately. We can find a cove for you somewhere more private on the way. I know it's been a long time since you've been able to swim."

Syrena hesitated. He was thinking of her, which she found gratifying, but she wondered if he also was thinking of himself. He was dreading this return, had been dreading it since they had begun the voyage to Barbados. Perhaps he wanted her to plead the weakness in her legs as an excuse to lengthen the journey. Then again, perhaps he wanted to arrive sooner and get it over with. She wished she understood him better.

"I would be glad of a short swim," she said after a pause. She felt some of the latent tension in his arm relax and was relieved to know she had said the right thing.

The coves they found along the coast were too large to give them any real privacy, but they did find a tidal pool about a quarter mile inland. The rocks surrounding it made for a difficult descent. This was a relief to Syrena, because it meant no one else would be tempted to intrude. Philip turned his back while she slipped out of her linen bodice, skirt and shift. She found his modesty both perplexing and endearing. During her younger days in Mallorca, she had assumed humans wore clothing because they were ashamed of the ugliness of their legs and wished to compensate for not having beautiful tails like her own people. But the human preoccupation with covering up seemed to go beyond that, as they also insisted on covering their arms, their chests and occasionally their heads.

As she submerged in the water – after two weeks trapped on deck it was a _glorious_ feeling, there was no denying it – she pondered Philip's decision to return to his former home. A part of her wished she could talk him out of it, if only to erase the shadows she saw in his face when he spoke of it, and the darkness that sometimes haunted his dreams. His church was gone, as was its head reverend, a man Philip had loved and respected during the few short months they had known each other. They had been building something new together. A school, he had told her. By ill chance, the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ had fallen on them while the clergy and some of the more skilled members of the congregation had been laying the foundation. From what he had described, she gathered there had not been much of a fight. Now Philip wanted to return to see if anything could be salvaged from the remains. And if not…

"Then I'll bury the dead," he had said firmly. Syrena could empathize with that. After the destruction of the Fountain of Youth, he had helped her cut loose the shriveled mermaid corpses at the pool of sorrows so they could finally rest on the ocean floor. She would do the same for him. Even so, most of the mermaids at the pool had been dragged there long before her time. They were strangers to her; these were his friends. _His wound has only just begun to heal, and now he is reopening it._ She feared what he might find there.

"Feeling better?" Philip asked. He turned his head slightly to the side, but not so much that he would catch sight of her over his shoulder. Even in her mermaid form, the sight of her naked torso seemed to make him flustered. She splashed him playfully in the back with her tail.

"Join me," she suggested. He chuckled softly. By the way he hid his face she surmised that he was blushing. Laughing, she pulled herself from the water and reached for her clothes.

"It's all right. You can turn around now," she told him as she adjusted the bodice around her waist. A half-smile of admiration crossed his face when he looked at her again, though in his eyes she saw a trace of puzzlement. She frowned. "What is it, Philip?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just a strange feeling. It seems barely a few days ago you were such a gangly, awkward thing, and now…" His voice trailed off as he offered her his arm. By now it was more a gesture of gallantry than physical support. "There are times I forget you are a creature of the sea."

Syrena bit her tongue and glanced to the side. There were times she wondered if he would rather forget she was a creature of the sea. Occasionally she found herself worrying that their relationship would prove too strange for him. To be pulled from death by a creature he thought existed only in myth, and then to awaken to an unnaturally charmed life…It was much for him to accept in a short time. And he was so very, very young. Slipping her arm inside his again, she did her best to brush the thought aside. _He is happy with you, and you are happy with him. Let it be enough._

They completed the next four miles along the coastline, holding their shoes in their free hands so the waves could lap against their ankles. Sometimes they spoke; sometimes they did not. She found the long silences comfortable most of the time.

She knew they were close when she felt the muscles in his arm tense. His heartbeat quickened as well, although this change would not have been audible to human ears. She squeezed his hand, wishing to convey some of the wordless reassurance he had given her on their journey through the jungle. There was value in such gestures, she remembered, even if they did no practical good. He pressed her fingers in response.

He stopped when the shoreline curved northeast. She saw it then, a grey house with a narrow tower sitting on a green slope. A few clusters of wild begonias had grown near the walls. Syrena could not help thinking it looked like such a peaceful place, to cause him so much doubt and anxiety.

"It's gone," Philip observed with detached surprise. "The flag of the Jolly Roger that Blackbeard hung over the steeple. Someone must have taken it down."

The sand gave way to soft grass and shrubs as they approached the mission. Up close, the building looked much less idyllic than it had from a distance. While the basic stone structure remained intact, the windows had been shattered, and rows of jagged glass teeth hung inside their frames. Philip circled around the side of the building. Syrena released his hand, thinking he would want to explore alone without her to slow him down. As his fingers traced the familiar stones, she wondered what memories lived inside the brick and mortar for him. When he reached the doorframe, he hesitated. Much like the window frames, it was now an empty gap overlooking a mess of splintered wood.

"The doors of God's house are always open," Philip murmured softly to himself. The sentence seemed to cause him great pain.

He lingered another moment, as if regaining his resolve. Finding it, he stepped across the threshold. Syrena watched from the doorway as Philip made his way slowly between the split and blackened pews, his footsteps muffled where dirt had seeped through the broken floor. The Black Beard's zombies had obviously burned the place from the inside out before leaving. When he had walked almost halfway down the aisle, Philip grasped the top of the nearest pew and stooped to the ground on one knee. His shoulders looked heavy. Syrena felt a sudden urge to wrap her arms around him and press her head against his neck, but she held back. She sensed this was a private moment that she should not disturb.

A sharp crack near the chancel made them both raise their heads. A short, wiry man in a black coat emerged from the doorway behind the chancel, accidentally snapping a piece of stray wood under his boot. "My dear boy, tardiness is rude, but for an old man, so is excessive _earliness_. If you wish to remove us, I'm afraid I'm rather busy today. You might come back again in about ten years-"

"Good Lord." The older man stopped abruptly beside the remains of the burnt pulpit. His hand flew to the white neck handkerchief around his throat. "Good Lord, I don't believe it. Philip Swift."

"That's twice now you've broken God's third commandment, Reverend Lawrence," Philip said, straightening.

"Statements of fact do not qualify as taking the Lord's name in vain. You never appreciated ambiguity, dear boy." The reverend crossed down the aisle to where Philip stood. He was truly short - the top of his head barely came up to Philip's shoulder. His thinning white hair pulled away from his face in a loose ponytail. Despite his aged appearance, though, he did not appear at all weak. The reverend grasped Philip's arms and surveyed him carefully through rectangular spectacles.

"Yes, I can see you're not one of those irritating prospectors trying to buy us out. The question is, are you a ghost, or some other unearthly spirit? Do you perhaps carry a message from the late Reverend Anton from beyond the grave?"

"If I'm a ghost, where's my body?" Philip asked pragmatically.

"Fair point, fair point," the reverend said with an absentminded nod, while he continued to survey Philip from behind his glasses. "Are you hurt anywhere? Fresh blood would be adequate proof of a corporeal existence…"

"Sorry, no," Philip replied, and Syrena thought she could hear a smile behind his words.

"Good God, I knew that was your voice!" A taller man with sandy brown curls bounded down from the chancel to join them in the middle of the church. He shook his head reprovingly at Philip. "You don't know how to stay dead, do you? Of all people to come wandering back out of the mess we found here. Ephraim! Julian! You're not going to believe who had the nerve…"

Within a few minutes, Philip was surrounded by four men in black showering him with jokes and good-natured slaps on the back. Syrena lingered near the doorway. This was his world now. He had returned to his element, and she was on the outside, watching. The sensation disquieted her, but it passed quickly enough. He turned to her and held out his arm, the warmth in his eyes conveying what words did not. _Come inside, you are family._

Syrena approached with caution. A few raised eyebrows greeted her arrival, but she detected none of the blatant leering she had experienced during their journey with the Black Beard. She wondered if she ought to smile. She decided against it, thinking the motion would look forced and awkward in front of people she barely knew. Performing to strangers was Philip's gift, not hers.

"Miss." The sandy-haired young man gripped her hand in a gesture she had seen Philip make several times with the captain of the _Morning Mercy_ and occasionally some of the crew. A gesture of greeting, and of trust. "Please tell me you're still a miss."

"I don't understand…"

"She's a miss, Simon," Philip answered dryly, reaching over to retrieve her hand. Simon wagged a finger at him.

"Then, Philip, you're either very good, or you're very, very bad." For some reason this remark made all of them laugh, and she couldn't figure out why. _This is not Philip's lost reverend, and these are not Philip's lost brothers_, she thought, eyeing the four men with some apprehension. Even so, Philip obviously knew them and trusted them. That should be good enough for her.

As the laughter died down, Philip shook his head and pulled her closer to his side. "I'm sorry, I've been remiss. This is-"

"My dear boy," Reverend Lawrence interrupted. "Introductions are all very well, but introductions tend to lead to stories. There is a time and a place for telling stories, and this is not it."

The reverend ushered them outside, a feat Syrena thought mildly impressive considering that everyone else present was more than a head and shoulders taller than him. Simon disappeared behind the building and returned a few minutes later with a coarse bundle he lobbed over the side of the reverend's uncovered wagon. He joined the reverend with the horses at the front while Philip and the other two priests climbed into the back. Philip offered her a hand up. As they pulled out of the shadow of the dilapidated church, Reverend Lawrence called over his shoulder, "You may speak, so long as you restrict your remarks to useless nonsense."

Syrena felt a momentary jolt of panic as the wagon began to move. She craned her neck toward the sea, wondering how far inland it would take them. Beside her, Philip sensed her anxiety and nodded to their two companions. "Ephraim. How far are we going?"

"To the reverend's mission house. About five miles along the coast." It was the pale, black-haired priest with glasses who answered.

Syrena relaxed. Philip slid his arm around her waist. She tilted her head to the side, only half-listening to the lighthearted conversation Philip was making with Ephraim and Julian in the back. The rest of her studied the waves as they sprayed white foam onto the rocks below, reflecting how much smaller they looked from land. A salty breeze tickled her face. For a moment it filled her with an immense longing, and she shivered. She turned away, and it subsided.

_Let's pretend, Philip_, she thought as she leaned her head against his shoulder. _Let's pretend we're a family on our way home, and that we'll all grow old together in a grey house by the ocean. _It would be dangerous to nurture that fantasy for long, but it was a harmless game for an evening ride. A cluster of grey nimbus clouds pregnant with rain began to billow in the west, and she closed her eyes.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I now realize having watched the film a second time that Blackbeard was supposed to capture Philip at sea. Which makes much more sense timewise, considering Blackbeard's voyage began in England. But by the time I discovered my mistake, I had already alluded to the Barbados backstory in Netmakers, so it was too late. This is the universe I am working in now. Possible explanations, in order of increasing implausibility: a) King George was vacationing in the Caribbean for his health when he sent Jack and Barbossa on their errand; b) Blackbeard passed through some sort of time portal or tesseract on the way from London to Barbados; c) Ships in the PotC universe are just incredibly fast._

_Beyond that, all I can say is...oops. "Slight AU" meant to compensate for errors in canon._


	2. Chapter 2

"Angels and ashes and blood. He kept repeating those words on the beach. His zombies were happy to take whatever they found in the church, but Blackbeard just seemed to care about the slaughter." Philip looked down into the mug of hot tea in his right hand. "Angelica was convinced the right person could save him. I wish I'd been equal to the task."

Syrena rested her back against the brick fireplace. She did not share Philip's preoccupation with saving souls, and his remorse for failing to save the pirate captain's was not something she could understand. Judging by the sympathetic nods of the other men in the room, though, they shared this peculiar empathy for evil people. She decided to let it slide. The warmth radiating from the hearth burned pleasantly against her sore muscles. It relieved her that the reverend and his three assistants had opted to stretch out on the floor in the library instead of sitting in the dining room. She had sat on benches a few times during their voyage, and the sensation of resting with half her legs so high above the ground still disoriented her.

"Was Syrena on Blackbeard's ship when you were brought on board?" Ephraim asked. He raised a cup of tea to his own lips and lowered it quickly so the steam would not fog up his glasses.

"No, we found Syrena on the island," Philip replied. His fingers curved around his mug thoughtfully. They had spent several days debating the finer points of the story they would tell to explain Syrena's history. In the end they had settled on a version as close to the truth as possible, without revealing her mystical origins. "She had lived there for about ten years after an unfortunate shipwreck. Blackbeard didn't have a map to the fountain, so when he discovered her, he pressed her into acting as his guide."

Reverend Lawrence frowned. "Were any of your family living with you on the island?" he asked her politely.

"They did not survive the wreck. It was only me," Syrena answered. She rolled her thumbs over the rim of her teacup and studied the four men seated around them. It was rather fascinating to watch the changes in their faces as they found a place for her in their minds. A new kind of wonder and curiosity glimmered in their eyes, and she could imagine the mental picture they had just formed of her. A wild castaway growing up alone in the heart of the jungle, surviving for a decade without speaking to another living soul. She wondered how they would look at her if she told them she had spent four centuries living alone in a very similar environment.

The reverend's frown softened. "I am sorry for your loss," he said, and he looked like he truly meant it.

"You are very kind," she said quietly, suddenly wanting to glance down again.

"But what about the Fountain?" Simon pressed, leaning forward with serious eagerness. "Was it real?"

"Don't be rude," Ephraim said dryly. Simon looked away. Apparently conscious of the poor timing of the question, he flicked an apologetic glance in her direction, but the excitement remained in his eyes and posture. Philip let out a soft sigh, half-amused and half-exasperated.

"There was a fountain, and it was real. I never found out if it was the Fountain of Youth. The Royal Navy arrived before Blackbeard had a chance to drink from it," he explained. "They were led by a man with a wooden leg. It would seem at least that part of Blackbeard's superstition was true." His brow furrowed as he contemplated the half-empty mug again. "Once the fighting broke out, all I really thought about was escaping with Syrena. We didn't stay long enough to see how it all turned out."

Philip set his mug on the floor by the hearth, where the firelight cast strange white patterns on the silver pewter. Syrena watched the flickering curves, mesmerized, until she felt her head begin to nod. Her eyelids were starting to grow heavy. Vaguely she heard Reverend Lawrence make another remark and Philip's reply, but it was rather like listening to a conversation going on above the surface while underwater. Unconsciously, her fingers relaxed.

A shattering at her feet jerked her from drowsiness. She looked down and saw the porcelain teacup she had been holding had broken to pieces, and the copper liquid was spreading rapidly across the floorboards. Syrena gasped softly. "I am so sorry-"

Philip reached down and rescued the broken shards, depositing them into the saucer by her feet. The action made her cheeks flush; she should have been the one to do that, not him. He squeezed her shoulder, giving her a reassuring smile when she looked up. The reverend waved his hand in dismissal.

"It's all of us who should apologize, keeping you awake talking when it's obvious you're exhausted."

Simon snorted. "Yes, Philip, what did you do to her? She's clearly traumatized." He turned to her with his hands over his chest and his eyes full of contrition. "For whatever you've endured in this man's company, I am truly sorry. While some blame his faulty education and his half-Irish mother, I know deep inside he's simply a bad person."

Philip's hand abruptly left her shoulder as he moved to swing it towards Simon's chest. "Shut it-"

Simon dodged the blow. Ephraim and Julian wisely stationed themselves in front of the table, to act as a buffer should Philip or Simon stumble towards it. Syrena looked at the smashed porcelain on the floor. They were all laughing now, as though nothing all that terrible had happened, and for some reason it made her want to cry. She tightened her jaw, telling herself that it was fatigue and nothing else that made her emotions threaten to spin out of control.

Reverend Lawrence stretched out his arm and regarded her kindly. "Let's leave the young ones be for tonight, shall we?"

Syrena accepted his outstretched hand and allowed him to lead her out of the library. They passed through the kitchen into grey rooms with yawning windows. The only light came from the candle in the reverend's hand, which cast elongated shadows across the floor and walls. Syrena's heart gave a small tremor when they reached the stairs, but she managed to steady herself on the wall and complete the ascent without stumbling. She breathed a very quiet sigh of relief when they reached the top.

"My late wife used this room as her personal study, when we didn't have many guests in the house. She liked to watch the sunset from the window." The reverend had paused at a small door on the left side of the corridor. "I hope you'll forgive me if it's a little dusty. It hasn't been occupied for quite some time." The door creaked slightly when he opened it. Syrena peered inside. Her eyes adjusted to a simple room with a quilted bed and a wooden chest at its foot. Bits of embroidery draped the chest and the table and the high-backed chair in the corner. It did not look particularly beautiful in the dark, but she suspected everything had been very carefully arranged in love for the deceased occupant. She entered softly, out of respect for the spirit that might still linger inside.

"Was she very old when she died?" she asked.

"Not fifty," Reverend Lawrence replied. "She was always young to me, though."

Syrena swallowed. "Then…I am sorry for your loss as well."

Reverend Lawrence eyed her curiously. "What exactly is your age, child?"

"I don't know for certain," Syrena answered honestly. She was grateful she at least did not have to lie about that. It would make Philip happy. The reverend chuckled. He placed the candle on the dresser and moved toward the door.

"Make one up," he suggested as he stepped across the threshold. "I find revising one's own history one of the more gratifying aspects of a faulty memory. Good night!"

The door clicked shut before Syrena remembered that she was probably supposed to say _good night_ as well. She wondered if he would think her rude or supercilious for not responding. The thought troubled her for a long time as she unlaced her dress and folded it into a smooth rectangle by the side of the bed. This person was someone very important to Philip; she did not wish to cause him grief by making a bad impression on the man who had freely opened his house to them. Then again, that had been one of the advantages of the false background they had invented for her. Most people would likely attribute any oddities in her behavior to her isolated upbringing.

Rubbing her arms in her shift, she stretched out on the mattress and let her head sink into the down pillows. It was not hard or cold, but it was uncomfortably still. Until meeting Philip she had never slept outside the ocean before, and she was accustomed to feeling the flow of waves and currents as she drifted off. On the boat there had at least been the gentle rocking to lull her to sleep. And Philip had always been next to her, whether on land or sea, letting her close her eyes with the rise and fall of his chest against her back. But things would be different once they reached Barbados, he had explained a few days after they boarded the _Morning Mercy_. Society dealt harshly with young couples who slept together and were not man and wife, even if they really were only sleeping.

_We could say we are man and wife_, she had suggested then. He hesitated, and for a moment he appeared to be seriously considering her proposal. Then he smiled and shook his head. He wanted to start their future together with as few lies as possible. No, she would be sleeping on her own tonight, and likely for several more nights to come.

She rolled onto her side. Outside her window the wind was picking up, batting dry leaves against the glass. The bed's obstinate refusal to move was starting to make her dizzy. With a violent start, she sat up and threw herself off the mattress. Her hands fumbled with the sash for a few frustrating moments before she flung open the window.

A warm gust of wind hit her face. It was a far cry from the comforting pulse on the ocean floor, but it was enough to clear her head. She turned back to the bed and wondered if she was strong enough to move it. After her first three attempts failed, she decided to tear the sheets off the mattress and lump them into a soft pile on the floor. Then, curling into a ball, she pulled the quilt over her head so it covered her like a shell. The fabric rippled over her body as the gale rose. Outside the wind hissed through the branches, hoarse and empty, like a thin wail of loneliness in the night. 

* * *

><p>The venerable John Lawrence's study was a mess, Philip thought as he leaned back in an oaken chair by the wall. The papers on his desk had overflowed to the floor, leaving it a small rectangular island in a sea of parchment. The books on his shelves didn't seem to be stacked in any specific order - if they were stacked at all. Several had page corners folded down to mark a particularly beloved passage. Glancing at the clutter around him, Philip could not help picturing the indignation his old mentor would feel in this room. Reverend Anton had believed a true Christian needed only one book. He had often accused Reverend Lawrence of spending more time reading the words of scholars than the word of God. Still, they had been friends. That Reverend Lawrence would spend so much energy repairing a church that wasn't his proved that clearly enough.<p>

Philip's eyes roamed across the scribbled notes and half-written sermons until his eyes fell on a twice-folded paper stamped with red sealing wax. Reverend Lawrence nodded at the parchment that had drawn his gaze.

"A letter from my daughter," he explained. "She and her husband returned to Devon three years ago. They've been asking me to come back quite regularly ever since. I cherish them both as living proof that hope always triumphs over experience."

Philip looked across at him. "You're not tempted, sir?" he asked. "No one would think less of you for wanting to spend your last years with your family."

The reverend sighed. "No, my journeying days are done," he said, removing his spectacles. Without them, the crow's feet on the corners of his eyes stood out more sharply in the dim candleglow. "When you reach my age, Philip, you come to value a bit of stability."

_His grandchildren's grandchildren will be in their graves before I look as old as he does,_ Philip realized. It was a sobering thought.

"Tell me, Philip," Reverend Lawrence said, suddenly serious. He folded his hands over his desk and looked at Philip through stern eyes. "What precisely are your intentions toward this girl?"

Philip hesitated. He had not known Reverend Lawrence nearly as well as he had known Reverend Anton; he could not guess how the man across from him would react to what he was about to say. The next moment he realized that it made no difference. "I would like to marry her," he answered clearly.

The reverend raised his eyebrows, though his face remained otherwise inscrutable. "And have you told her this?"

Philip fingered the arm of his chair. "Not in those words," he said slowly. "No."

Reverend Lawrence nodded thoughtfully. "Good," he said and, after another pause, "That's good." He was silent for almost a full minute after that. Philip watched as the older man fiddled absentmindedly with a quill while his eyes surveyed the disorganized notes on his desk. He was starting to wonder if the minister expected him to reply when, abruptly, Reverend Lawrence shook his head as if coming out of a trance.

"Yes. I'm sure you know her better than I do, but I couldn't help noticing that she seems a bit…out of her element, if you will. If she's been living by herself for as long as you say, turning into a wife and mother is the last thing she needs right now. After ten years she'll need some time to adjust to being around people again."

Philip looked down. A flicker of sadness brushed past his chest, though if it showed in his face, Reverend Lawrence probably wouldn't guess the real reason. He could make Syrena a wife, but if what the Spaniards had told him was true, he could never make her a mother. Even so, he could see the logic in the reverend's words. It would be wrong, to bring her to land and then suddenly throw matrimony on her as well.

"Are you saying it would be better for me to distance myself from her?" he asked carefully. His throat constricted as the question left his mouth. Reverend Lawrence raised a conciliatory hand.

"There's no need for you to avoid her entirely. I imagine she'd find that rather disorienting too," he clarified. "But think, Philip. Alone for half her life, then suddenly assaulted by a gang of pirates, and you probably the only decent man she's seen outside her family. I'm not saying this to belittle you. I'm sure you'd be as devoted a partner as she could wish for. But she must realize that she has _options_." The reverend sighed. "Rescues make excellent romances. They don't always make excellent marriages."

He leaned backwards in his chair. He shrugged his shoulders, as though trying to shake off the more difficult part of the conversation. "That aside, I don't recall ever hosting a former castaway in this house. If there is anything else you could tell us that might make her more comfortable here…"

Philip tried very hard to keep his face neutral while his mind raced with the thousand things he couldn't tell the reverend about Syrena. He ran his thumb along the wooden armrest thoughtfully. "She doesn't like eating cooked meat. Or Catholics."

He realized a second too late how disturbing that statement probably sounded. Reverend Lawrence merely raised an eyebrow, as though it was nothing more than an intriguing personality quirk. "As I said. You know her better than I do."

The minister rose from his chair. Taking his lead, Philip stood and followed him to the door. Before they left, the reverend paused, his gaze softening. "There is always the possibility that once she finds her feet, she will choose to go somewhere else," he said. "Of course, that doesn't mean I won't be rooting for you."

They walked through the dark house in silence, broken only by the muffled conversation emanating from the library. Another half-smile crossed Philip's face as he remembered the story they had told in that room less than an hour ago. Despite the technical falsehood, there was a certain truth to the fabricated version of Syrena's role. He had been confused and adrift, and out of nowhere she had appeared, giving him a purpose he had been unable to find since Angelica dragged him aboard the _Queen Anne's Revenge_. She had been his guiding star, even if she never had been Blackbeard's.

Reverend Lawrence stopped him again at the foot of the stairs. His face looked grim, and Philip suspected it wasn't a trick of the darkness and shadows. "We should take a walk tomorrow," he said.

Philip blinked. This did not seem like the kind of remark that required a grave prelude. The reverend nodded, but he had stopped looking at Philip, and it seemed he nodded to himself. "Tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow I will explain to you what your brothers died for. Not tonight." He placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sleep well, Philip. In the morning I'll tell you about angels and ashes and blood."

Philip placed an uncertain hand on Reverend Lawrence's arm, not quite sure how he was supposed to respond to that. The reverend accepted the gesture with another nod and disappeared into the adjacent room. Philip watched him go, disconcerted. He shook his head and turned to climb the stairs. Whatever it was, it couldn't possibly affect them now.

At the top of the staircase he paused. He wondered how Syrena was doing. There was only one closed door in the hallway, so it was not hard to guess where she was tonight. For half a heartbeat he considered knocking on her door and then thought better of it. _She's not a helpless captive for you to rescue anymore. She doesn't need your protection. _All the same, he realized he had gotten used to falling asleep with her beside him. He had grown accustomed to the sound of her shallow breathing, the way the moon highlighted the goosebumps on her arms, and the occasional moments when her head would fall against his shoulder. Going back to sleeping on his own suddenly felt very lonely.

It was a selfish impulse, he thought. They could share centuries together as long as they didn't ruin things at the beginning. If she could give him time, he could give her space. As he turned to walk toward the other end of the corridor, the moonlight cast a grey shadow on her door. The image of the shut door followed him down the hall, a melancholy reminder that where they once had been two, they now were reduced to being one and one.

* * *

><p><em>Disclaimer: Not mine (since I forgot to insert it last time).<em>


	3. Chapter 3

Syrena awoke damp and shivering and unable to remember when she had fallen asleep. The cocoon of sheets she had built around herself was drenched from last night's rain. Her arms, legs and neck stung where the fabric touched her bare skin; she was not made for fresh water. Cautiously she sat up on her elbows. She began to peel away the covers and suddenly had to bite back a cry of pain.

A sharp cramp shot through the joints of her hands. She flexed her fingers experimentally and heard a sickening series of cracks. Closing her eyes, she fought off a wave of nausea. _It's the water, it must be the water_, she thought and kicked off the sheets before the cramping could spread to her legs.

She rose to her feet, moving gingerly across the hardwood floor. Mercifully the throbbing did not move past her wrists. She paced in front of the window, around the bed, as far as the four walls of her room allowed. It was impossible to shut out a growing claustrophobia as they threatened to close in around her. The urge to fling the door open and rush outside nearly overpowered her, but a jolt of fear held her back. She could not face the rest of them like this, confused, bedraggled and distracted. Philip she trusted, but she had no idea where he was, and she might run into one of the other priests before she found him.

Swallowing hard, Syrena sat down on the mattress and waited for the throbbing to subside. After about twenty minutes it finally began to recede. She pulled her dress over her head carefully. The shocks of pain did not return, but it was another half hour before she felt safe enough to venture downstairs.

A warm, fragrant aroma beckoned from the kitchen, but Syrena lingered in the library. Most of the house was still strange to her. She did not know what to do with herself, and this room had an aura of familiarity. Someone had swept the ashes from the hearth. The room looked more spacious in daylight, with its wide, elaborately paneled windows scattering sunbeams across the floor. She pondered the wooden shelves stacked almost to the ceiling, all of them cluttered with colorful boxes. A few were made of leather and marked in gold; others were paper-bound with faded black markings. She remembered the box of stories Philip had carried and wondered if any of these were identical to the one he had lost in the jungle saving her.

Curious, she pulled one down. Lifting the top, she was disappointed to find nothing but loosely bound parchment inside. Hundreds of tiny black designs cascaded down each sheet in rows and columns. She peered at them more closely, but the symbols made no more sense than they had from a distance.

"I'd put that one back while you still can. Hobbes is a bit depressing. Avoid Machiavelli too, unless you want to completely lose faith in human nature." Syrena turned sharply towards the door. Ephraim walked past her toward the shelves on the far wall. He didn't seem interested in her behavior, but he was frowning, and she was suddenly very worried she'd done something wrong. Replacing Hobbes on the shelf, she straightened her shoulders.

"Where is Philip?" she asked quickly.

"Out with the reverend. They should be back in an hour or so," Ephraim replied, still scanning the shelves. Syrena folded her hands, trying not to feel abandoned. It would be unfair to begrudge him time alone with his family, especially after he had lost so many of them already. She wondered if she should explore the gardens outside until he returned; she could avoid attention more easily there.

"Can you reed?" Ephraim asked abruptly.

Syrena blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Ephraim nodded towards the leather-bound box she had returned to the shelf. "The words in the books. Can you reed them?"

Syrena searched frantically for an answer, which was much more difficult when she didn't understand the question. "I don't know," she answered finally. "I have never tried before."

Ephraim raised his eyebrows. He looked a little amused by her reply. For a long second an uncomfortable awkwardness hung in the air in front of her, until the odd expression on his face faded into one of neutral politeness. "Would you like to learn?" he asked.

"Wassal this?" A disheveled Simon stretched languorously in the doorway, which almost knocked against his head. Syrena suddenly felt cornered. Simon yawned and ran his fingers through his curly brown hair. "You teaching someone to reed, Ephraim?"

"Out," Ephraim ordered without glancing at his friend. "It's too early for you to be in this room. Mornings aren't good for you. Go to the kitchen."

"Do mornings make you sick, Simon?" Syrena interjected politely. A part of her was honestly curious if the pain she'd experienced that morning was normal; the other part was anxious to divert the conversation away from herself.

Ephraim sighed loudly. "Not sick, so much as incredibly incoherent. It would be better for all of us if he were just tired, but unfortunately he thinks he's wide awake, and all of us have to put up with his incomprehensible ramblings."

"I'll teach you to reed if you like," Simon volunteered. He strode into the library and plucked a stack of heavy leather books off the shelf to her right. "We can practice with these. Come on," he said, plopping them on the floor by the fireplace.

He reached out for her arm. She backed away quickly. "No, really," she protested. "I wouldn't want to mess them up."

She glanced frenetically around the room. Ephraim was staring at her with that odd expression again, Simon was beckoning her forward while scattering more books in a pile on the floor, and Syrena felt as though she was trapped between two circling sharks with no time to dart for an opening.

"It's easy," Simon insisted. He rolled up his sleeves and began to shove the cedar table towards the window. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ephraim open his mouth and then, with an air of resignation, close it. He moved to help Simon with the table. The action left the doorway into the parlour unguarded, and for a moment she wondered if she ought to make a break for it. She folded her hands in front of her. Setting her jaw resolutely, she stepped forward and joined them in the center by the hearth. _It's only an hour_, she thought, sparing one more glance out the window where Philip walked somewhere beyond her sight.

* * *

><p>There was no road where the reverend was leading him. The grassy fern brushed above his ankles where he stepped, and the soil underneath had bubbled into mud overnight. In the hour since they had left the mission house, the sky had turned from silver grey to pale blue. Philip rubbed the corners of his eyes; he had slept poorly the night before, and Reverend Lawrence had awoken him before dawn.<p>

A cool breeze wafted from the trees as they turned inland. The air was heavier and louder in the forest, full of impatient bird cries and murmuring waterfalls. Philip shadowed the reverend in silence. So far they'd exchanged little conversation. Reverend Lawrence set a brisk pace, undeterred by the maze of uplifted tree roots and brambles. Philip scanned the trees with some bewilderment. The forest was beautiful, in a chaotic, primeval way, but he saw nothing that could explain Blackbeard or the riddle of angels and ashes and blood.

"How much do you know of the men before Noah?" Reverend Lawrence asked abruptly, breaking the prolonged silence.

Still tired, Philip scoured his memories of the Bible's earlier chapters. The stories of Adam and Eve and Cain and Abel had been ingrained in his mind since childhood. They were hard to forget, for all their dark and cynical overtones – a marriage ruptured, a virtuous man killed and a murderer protected by God. But after that the Biblical drama faded into a laundry list of strange names and _begats_. "Not much," he admitted.

"Yes, I suppose to passionate men like yourself, family trees don't make for very interesting reading, do they?" Philip searched the reverend's tone for a hint of reproach but failed to find it. Reverend Lawrence continued to navigate the thick tree roots, leaning occasionally on his walking stick for support. "You don't know much about them because there isn't much to know. We don't even have enough information to call them legends, though they almost certainly were.

"We were not always the weak, fleeting creatures we are today. Adam," the reverend said, pausing to catch his breath. "Adam lived nine hundred thirty years before God turned him back into dust. Methuselah lived the longest – nine hundred sixty-nine years. And Enoch…Enoch walked with God three hundred years before Scripture says he was no more, because God took him. One of only two men never to die. And yet his kin would have thought his time on earth _short_."

Philip suppressed a shudder. Talk of men living for almost a millennium sent a familiar prickle down his arms. Reverend Lawrence was looking the other direction, apparently lost in thought. "Our decades were their centuries. We are but pale imitations of God's first creations."

"Until our wickedness became too much for God to bear," Philip murmured. Reverend Lawrence regarded him with surprise.

"Wickedness? Hardly," the reverend replied. "Man's evil brought down the flood. But the slashing of our lifespan…that was something very different." The reverend had stopped. He now stood with his walking stick planted in the ground, both hands pressing it into the soil. "Here. This is what I came to show you."

Philip glanced around. The ground where they stood didn't look that different from the ground behind them, or the ground ahead of them. A large cedar tree wrapped in vines stretched towards the canopy, but they had passed at least a dozen others just like it. Fortunately Reverend Lawrence didn't seem to expect him to show any sign of astonishment. He continued his theology lesson – or perhaps it was history – as though he had never left off.

"In the days before the flood, Scripture says the sons of God looked down and saw how fair the daughters of men were and took them for wives. The offspring of such unions were men of terrible strength and power. Warriors of great renown, the Bible tells us. But this was a time when man needed to create, not destroy. God did not like the coupling between angels and mortals, so he cut the mortal lifespan short.

"This," Reverend Lawrence said, jamming his stick into the ground a second time. "This is the birthplace of one of those half-seraphs. This is where a daughter of man gave birth to the child of an angel."

Philip looked around again. For a moment he felt very tempted to ask, _How can you tell?_ He shook his head, surprised at his own skepticism. After all that had happened to him in the last two months, he should have grown used to accepting the strange and uncanny. But as much as he relied on faith, he had always imagined it to be more of a guiding hand than anything else. When the Lord acted, he acted through the hearts and minds of men. He had never asked God to perform miracles..._Except once, and God granted that miracle_, Philip thought, remembering one dawn by a jungle pool.

"This place is hardly unique. I imagine there are at least a hundred like it all over the world. The point," Reverend Lawrence continued, "the point is that Blackbeard knew about it. And no, I'm afraid I don't know exactly how.

"The ground we're standing on is stained with the blood of that birth. Legend says that if a man mixes that blood with his own, he will obtain the longevity and invincibility of one of the half-seraphs. I'm sure you can imagine why Blackbeard would be interested."

Philip nodded mutely. He could imagine very well why Blackbeard would seek out a place like this before the Fountain of Youth. A place where he could gain a thousand years instead of a paltry forty or fifty. And with his paranoia of meeting the one-legged man, the promise of superhuman power must have been too tempting to resist. "When?" he asked flatly.

"About a year ago," Reverend Lawrence replied. "Before your time. Blackbeard sought out your old mentor at the church, privately. A cordial visit, Reverend Anton told me later. There was the requisite sword-waving and threats of disembowelment, of course, but no bloodshed. In short, Blackbeard wanted to know what ritual the birthground required."

"He didn't seriously expect Reverend Anton to tell him," Philip said, incredulous. He would have been astounded if Reverend Anton even had known about such a ritual, let alone confided it to a pirate and endangered both their souls.

"Reverend Anton did tell him," Reverend Lawrence replied. "It's a fairly simple process. Burn a blade of grass or a piece of a plant growing from the soil and rub it into a cut on your skin, like a tattoo. One could create a more elaborate design, I suppose, but there's really no need." He waved his hand dismissively, as if to indicate his opinion of that kind of flamboyance.

"I can't believe that. He couldn't," Philip said in a low voice.

"Don't be too hard on him," Reverend Lawrence advised. "The birthground demands a heavy price, which Reverend Anton, shall we say, rather conveniently forgot to mention." The reverend smiled to himself, though it seemed to Philip's eyes a bitter smile. "To gain a life, another must always be sacrificed. But in this case, the earth demands the life of the recipient." He inhaled the crisp morning air for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Memories, Philip. This ground will give you a thousand-year lifespan, but it will make you forget every moment of your former life. Who you were, what you dreamed, who you loved. You would wake up…a new creation."

"A new creation," Philip repeated quietly. "So he meant to redeem Edward Teach after all."

"Perhaps," Reverend Lawrence replied. "At any rate it backfired spectacularly. It turns out their conversation was not as private as they supposed. The next morning Blackbeard found one of his own crewmen out cold, right about where you're standing. When he came to, he didn't have a clue what his name was or who any of them were.

"Blackbeard, of course, was furious. Reverend Anton probably expected an attempt on his life then, but Blackbeard bided his time. Your pastor knew he was living with a knife over his head. I think he hoped Blackbeard would exact his revenge in private. If he had known what was going to happen…" The reverend shook his head. "He would have been wiser to flee, but he was not that kind of man."

Philip swallowed, feeling a tightness returning to his throat. _Angels and ashes and blood_. Before they had reached Whitecap Bay, he had chalked up most of Blackbeard's incoherent words to the ravings of a lunatic. The total of lack of meaning had made the journey more painful, or so he had thought at the time. Now he could see a purpose behind the slaughter on the beach, and it didn't make it any easier to accept.

"I am sorry if this retelling causes you more pain, Philip," Reverend Lawrence said, cutting into his thoughts. "I merely thought you deserved to know." He hesitated a moment, offering Philip a chance to respond. When Philip silently declined, the reverend withdrew and began the slow journey back to the house.

As the reverend's foosteps faded, Philip sat down on one of the uplifted cedar roots, his muscles stiff and unsteady. He was grateful for the privacy. He doubted he could have concealed the confusion the conversation had left in his mind if he'd had to accompany the reverend much longer. A confusion, he was ashamed to admit, had very little to do with the death of his old pastor or the dozen other unarmed innocents on the beach two months ago.

He supposed it could be some comfort, to believe he was not the first man blessed with a lifespan of centuries rather than decades. It almost made what Syrena did to him seem natural. Viewed in that light, all she had done was return him to man's original state at the dawn of creation. They could live like the couples in ancient times, growing old together over the slow passage of eight hundred years. That could not be a terrible affront to heaven, and yet…_God did not like the coupling between angels and mortals, so he cut the mortal lifespan short._

Philip shook his head, dismissing the fear as irrational. Syrena was no angel. A mermaid's lifespan, while more than twenty times longer than that of a human, was still finite. He rose and began the trek out of the forest, but the words echoed in his head the entire way back to the mission house.

The front door was ajar when he arrived, and the sound of several voices laughing streamed from somewhere in the back. The door creaked open as he stepped inside. Ephraim rushed into the hall. His face looked flushed, and his glasses were slightly askew. "I convinced him to stack them alphabetically. I'm sorry, it was the best I could do…"

Puzzled, Philip brushed past him and made for the library. The sight that greeted him made him stop dead in the doorway. Syrena, Simon and Julian were circling a precarious tower of books that almost reached the ceiling. The design of the tower, he had to admit, was somewhat impressive. Every layer had books propped up vertically, horizontally, diagonally. Some were even propped open. Ephraim's condition that they remain alphabetical seemed to require some creativity. He couldn't begin to fathom how the structure stayed balanced. Reverend Lawrence stood near the back of the room with his arms folded across his chest, looking remarkably unconcerned at the demolition of his second study.

Syrena turned, her hazel eyes shining with delight. "Philip," she cried when she saw him standing on the threshold. "We're reading!"

Philip stared dumbfounded at the literary colossus in the center of the room. _That's not reading_, he thought, but he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud, not when she looked so happy. He didn't want to be the one to extinguish the light from her eyes.

"That's wonderful," he said on reflex. He turned to Simon. "Have you told her what happens if it falls?"

"Seven years of famine," Simon answered without holding fire. "Locusts. Plagues of frogs. The like. But only if it happens on the two holiest nights of the year."

"That would be Easter Vigil and Christmas Eve," Reverend Lawrence supplied. "I understand this is merely a practice run."

"Of course," Simon said. He glanced quickly at Ephraim, who was frowning at him from the doorway behind Philip. "We're only required to do this sort of reading twice a year. The rest is just rehearsal. Wycliffe!"

Simon's eyes lit up at the heavy Middle English text in Julian's hand. Julian, being something of a giant, had the advantage of height but not dexterity. As he began to slide the Wycliffe Bible vertically beside Voltaire's _Lettres philosophiques_, his knee knocked against Erasmus' _In Praise of Folly_. The book toppled onto its side, taking the rest of the row with it. Philip had just enough time to grab Syrena's arm and pull her out of harm's way before the entire structure collapsed. They stood awkwardly in a shower of literature.

Syrena blinked and peered around his shoulder at the mess of Bibles, essays and pamphlets decorating the floor. "I suppose that was not a good rehearsal, was it?"

"It was…decent," Ephraim said while rubbing his glasses with his neck handkerchief. The corners of his mouth were twitching. "Last time we didn't get past Marlowe before it collapsed."

Beside him, Syrena brushed off a few worn pages of a farmer's almanac that had plastered themselves onto her bodice. Philip ran his fingers through his hair, wondering how in the world to solve the problem of illiteracy without guaranteeing she never trusted any of them again. "Syrena, would you care to learn the sort of reading we do in Cornwall?" he asked offhand.

"Very much," she answered seriously. Philip breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He bent down and retrieved one of the abandoned Bibles on the floor. Simon opened his mouth, perhaps to protest his taking only one book, but Ephraim silenced him with a glare.

They left the house through the back door and emerged on the edge of Reverend Lawrence's vegetable garden. After wandering between the rows of chard for a few minutes, Syrena discovered a patch of soil that looked comfortable to her. She lowered herself to the ground, unconscious of how her skirt rode up and exposed her ankles. Philip allowed her to pull him down with her, having accepted her discomfort with benches and chairs.

"They were lying, weren't they?" she said, fingering the grains in the dirt.

"Yes," Philip said after a beat. "Ephraim probably would have taught you honestly, but Simon gets carried away with whatever he finds amusing, and he doesn't always think about the feelings of others."

"It's all right," Syrena said lightly. "They didn't mean any harm. And it was fun while it lasted."

Philip folded his hand over his knees. "I was planning to teach you, but I wasn't sure if you already knew how. And it didn't seem that important on the island," he confessed. There were many things that hadn't seemed that important during the surreal weeks before their rescue, when they'd spent nights under the trees and days exploring coral reefs and underwater caverns.

Syrena frowned. "You might have at least told me what it was," she said, a note of reproof in her voice.

"Here." Hoping to make amends, he stretched out on the ground and propped the book so it lay open in front of her. She traced the markings with her fingers. Philip leaned closer and let his finger follow hers as it curved over the thin paper. "The different segments," he explained, "are words. Every word is separated by a space. The tinier symbols inside the words-" Syrena bent her head so close her nose almost brushed the pages. Several strands of hair fell across her face, obstructing his view. Without thinking he brushed the strands over her shoulder. "The symbols inside are letters. Every letter represents a sound. The circle one here," he paused again, "is an _o_. Try and find another."

Syrena studied the page with a serious frown. "The segments are words…" she repeated thoughtfully. "Read them to me."

Philip nodded towards the page. "I asked you first," he said. Syrena propped herself up on her elbows and regarded him imperiously. _She's going to be a difficult student_, he realized. Then unconsciously he broke into a smile, feeling absurd. It was a very small thing she was asking, and there was no reason to deny her. He swallowed and softly cleared his throat. As he began to read, she rested her head against his shoulder while her thumb absentmindedly traced the corners of the pages.

"_Where can I hide from your spirit?  
>From your presence, where can I flee?<br>If I ascend to the heavens, you are there.  
>If I lie down in Sheol, you are there too.<br>If I fly with the wings of the dawn and alight beyond the sea  
>Even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.<br>If I say, surely darkness shall-"_

Abruptly Syrena jerked her hand away from the pages, as though it had been pricked by an invisible thorn. Philip turned away from the book, poetry forgotten. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said quickly. She directed her attention back to the book, but it did not escape Philip's notice that she continued to massage her hand with the fingers of the other. He moved to take her hand in his own. She retracted it, placing it carefully on the other side of the Bible beyond his reach. Her fingers dug into the warm soil. They flexed and twitched, but Syrena kept her eyes fixed on the worn pages.

"I'm sure it's nothing. Please…please go on…"

* * *

><p><em>AN: I generally don't write long author's notes unless they're directly related to the story, but I was honestly a little shocked at the amount of feedback this fiction received, and I wanted to send out a brief thank you to everyone who's been reading and reviewing so far. Your comments have meant a lot to me, and I'm very grateful. I also thought I should answer some of the questions anonymous reviewers posted, since I can't answer them personally. We will see more of Tamara later in the story, and possibly Jack. Not sure about Philip's mother. Though Philip does miss both his parents a great deal, I think he would feel uncomfortable returning to Cornwall with so much he can't explain._

_The passage Philip read is from Psalm 139. For the passage on angel/mortal pairings, see Genesis 6:1-4._


	4. Chapter 4

Philip sat with his hands locked together, though not in prayer. At least, not the sort of prayer he could put into words. _She wanted to come here_, he reminded himself. Strictly speaking Reverend Lawrence had asked Syrena the night before if she would like to attend church and Syrena, in her thoughtful, solemn voice, had answered yes. Looking back, Philip wasn't sure if she'd realized she had the option of saying _no_.

They sat unobtrusively in one of the middle pews near the window. Normally Reverend Lawrence followed the custom of welcoming new visitors from the pulpit or welcoming back old ones who had been away, but he had agreed to suspend the practice today, much to Philip's relief. Syrena still felt uncomfortable in crowds, and he knew his return would prompt requests for an adventure story he did not feel ready to give. But he realized less than ten minutes after sitting down that the reverend might as well have announced them, for all the good it did. Several of the congregants had attended Reverend Anton's church before its destruction, and they remembered the ardent young missionary from Cornwall. Most of the stares, though, were directed at Syrena.

They couldn't fault her dress. Over her shift she wore a masterpiece of white muslin splashed with purple flowers. The enormous sleeves at her elbows almost swallowed her arms. But with her hands uncovered and her hair cascading loosely over her shoulders – neither he nor anyone else in the house had a clue how to pin it back into the customary spectacle of curls – she looked nothing like the genteel ladies gliding on the arms of their fathers and husbands. There was a wildness about her that drew attention. He had a feeling that even if she had worn lace gloves and piled her hair tightly beneath a wide-brimmed hat, her innate wildness only would have stood out more strongly by contrast.

Syrena sat up very straight, as though she felt every pair of eyes measuring her and passing judgment. She did not appear troubled – at least, not until the organ blasted the call to worship and she jerked forward so sharply he thought she might bolt from the pew. After the first few bars she sat back again, but Philip noticed her hands twisting the fabric of her gown. He suspected she was suppressing the urge to clap them over her ears.

It was a relief when they turned to the Book of Common Prayer. Philip discovered he'd missed the sound of a hundred voices reciting the same familiar words every Sunday. He wondered if Syrena found it as soothing as he did, or if she found the practice strange and unnerving. Having been raised in the Church of England since birth, he had no idea how it looked to someone on the outside. He wondered if she felt lost. Glancing to the side, he started to lean in so she could follow his copy, but what he saw made him pause.

Syrena already had a copy of the book stretched out on her lap. She was mouthing the words to herself in silence– slowly, and on a completely different page, but she looked riveted. Her intense focus mesmerized him. Reading had come naturally to him for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like when the effort to make out a few words required total concentration. He looked away before she noticed him staring. He didn't want to interrupt her or make her uncomfortable. Her lips continued to move noiselessly while she ran her finger from left to right. Gradually he began to relax. By the time Reverend Lawrence took to the pulpit for the sermon, Philip felt as natural beside his silent companion as if he'd grown up sitting next to her.

The feeling lasted for most of the reverend's two-hour lesson. Philip had sat through longer ones – Reverend Anton had once held an audience spellbound for four and a half hours. Still he marveled that Syrena was able to sit through it all, until a small bump on his shoulder alerted him that she'd fallen asleep.

For several awkward minutes he debated whether he ought to wake her up. She might feel chastised, and that was the last thing he wanted. And it had been so long since he had felt her head resting against his shoulder…He glanced judiciously at the pulpit. Reverend Lawrence would forgive her, if he happened to look her way, and almost everyone else in the congregation wasn't in a position to see her very well. He decided to let her sleep until the sermon drew to a close. Then he touched her wrist, thinking she would rather have him wake her up than the organ.

Her eyes blinked open. She looked alarmed, and apologetic. "Was I asleep long?"

"Only a minute or two," Philip lied.

The closing hymn was mercifully shorter than the opening one. Rustles and buzzes began to permeate the church as restless worshipers migrated towards the aisle. Philip suddenly remembered that for the vast majority of people there, church was just as much a social experience as a spiritual one. And for Syrena, there was really no escape. She would either have to let dozens of curious strangers bombard her with questions or be labeled an antisocial snob. _She'll be eaten alive_, he thought.

Taking her arm he started to make for the outer aisle, where they stood a greater chance of avoiding attention. But he'd barely stood up when a rich baritone voice echoed behind him.

"Philip Swift! Don't imagine you're getting away so easily, young man." Philip turned. The portly figure of Silas Ramsay, one of Reverend Anton's wealthier parishioners, was striding across the pew. His two daughters trailed behind him. Both their faces were sheltered from the sun beneath lemon and rose-colored hats. Philip thought they resembled Syrena the way a pair of pressed flowers resembled a butterfly. "You're becoming neglectful, ignoring your old congregation. This young man-" Silas said proudly, turning to Syrena, "brought more souls to our parish in a month than we'd gathered in three years. Though you did tend to favor the vulgar classes, didn't you?"

"Our Lord made his home with the poor," Philip pointed out congenially.

"Oh, I'm not complaining, not at all. Always had a soft spot for the needy," Silas said with a laugh. "But the rich need salvation as much as the poor, don't you think? Easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, they say…"

"Your hair is beautiful," Syrena observed, cutting into the awkwardness of the conversation. She was looking at Silas' daughter Elinor, who stood mutely in her older sister's shadow. She blushed at the compliment. At fifteen, womanhood still fitted her uncertainly. "How do you arrange it that way?"

"Our maid does it," Elinor murmured. Her grey eyes brightened for a moment. "We could show you how if you like," she offered. Her sister laughed and touched Syrena's arm affectionately.

"But you have such lovely tresses, darling, it would be a waste not to let them hang freely. Better for all the handsome sailors in Tortuga to see."

The older girl favored Syrena with a disarming smile, and Philip could only stare in mute astonishment. With the reference to Tortuga and attracting seamen, she had all but accused Syrena of being a whore. Glancing around at the small crowd of listeners who had gathered in front of them, Philip realized none of them looked shocked at the accusation, though most looked uncomfortable that Charlotte had voiced it aloud. It took him another moment to realize her unbound appearance might have encouraged it. What looked natural and carefree to him probably looked brazen to them.

"We didn't meet in Tortuga. And she's not very fond of sailors." Philip tried to stop the edge from creeping into his words, reminding himself that he wasn't answering a murderous pirate, but a thoughtless young woman. Even so, he had to fight to keep his voice even. He noticed the tinge of color in Syrena's cheeks and thought, S_he knows. And she knows it's not just Charlotte Ramsay thinking it._

Silas placed an indulgent hand on his daughter's shoulder. "There's a sensible girl for you, Charlotte." He winked at Syrena, and Philip could tell he was trying to dissuade the tension his daughter's remark had created. "Wouldn't mind having you in my house for a bit. Naval officers parading through every port on the island, and all the females under my roof half-crazed with romance, including my wife."

The eyes of Charlotte Ramsay sparkled. "Yes, do come. I'm sure we could all benefit from your experience. You must have known several, to have formed such a low opinion of the entire class." Philip stifled a groan. He had never fully appreciated the skill of a polite society, that could wrap a slur in the cloak of a compliment.

"My father was a sailor," Syrena answered courteously. "I did not see him very often, but I knew I would not wish to marry one." A few murmurs of sympathy and approval followed her lie - the women of Bridgetown were no strangers to the difficulty of sailor marriages and the strain long absences could put on a relationship.

"At least he left you his name. Some sailors don't even leave that much," Charlotte observed. Her eyebrows rose, almost imperceptibly, as though she was inviting Syrena to contradict her. _So to them she's not only a whore, but a bastard as well. _A month ago that remark would have gone completely over Syrena's head, but she'd learned the customs of marriages and last names since then. Philip was certain she'd felt the full force of the insult. Why had none of them seen this coming?

"If you're only capable of-"

"Philip-" Her voice cut him off. Syrena squeezed his arm and looked at him, her eyes imploring. "May we go outside for a bit? There's a garden on the side of the church I would like to explore."

At that point Philip was glad enough for an excuse to escape, and the crowd seemed glad enough to give it to them. "Take care not to get lost with your bewitching companion," Silas warned him jovially. Philip couldn't help wondering if there was a double meaning in that compliment as well. As they crossed the threshold of the church, an onslaught of fresh air momentarily subdued the anger that had threatened to overpower him. Syrena seemed to feel it too, as her grip on his arm relaxed and she paused to inhale the aroma of salt and begonias.

"I think I should not have worn this," she said as they wandered towards the garden, smoothing her hands over the white muslin. "It belonged to the reverend's wife. I should have known they would find it intrusive."

"You have nothing to apologize for. It was they who were thoughtless, not you," Philip told her. It wouldn't help to point out there was nothing else she could have worn. Every dress in the house had once belonged to Reverend Lawrence's late wife, except for the dress Syrena had worn the night she'd walked in_. And if you'd worn that to church, they would have assumed exactly the same thing._ That also did not need pointing out, he thought.

"We don't have to stay for the rest," he said. Her shoulders tensed again.

"There's more?" she asked, a little tremulously.

"It's not as long as the morning service," he explained quickly. "Reverend Lawrence has talked about doing away with the afternoon service entirely, since he knows more than half the worshippers aren't listening to him anymore, but the wealthier members threatened to leave if he did. I promise, Syrena, he wouldn't be offended if you didn't want to stay."

Syrena locked her fingers together and looked down. Her jaw tightened. It was a posture he was starting to recognize. "No," she said firmly. "No, I'm going back inside. And...I will try not to fall asleep this time." She swallowed. "But Philip, please promise me one thing." She raised her head, and he waited. "You must promise to warn me when they start playing the music from the _Flying Dutchman_ again."

It took a minute for him to work out that she was referring to the organ. He remembered overhearing the crew on the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ talk about Davy Jones and the legend of the music he played every night to drown the pain from his severed heart. He supposed in four hundred years she might have heard the _Dutchman_'s song somewhere on the open sea. "Is that why it scared you?"

"Not scared," she corrected. "Startled. It sounded like a chorus of dying whales." Philip tried to picture the organist's face if he heard that description and realized he would not be able to look the man in the eye for quite some time. Syrena took him by the arm again, and suddenly he was very grateful they had at least an hour before the bells would call them back for afternoon worship.

* * *

><p>Philip waited to confront Reverend Lawrence until after they'd returned to the mission house and Syrena was sufficiently distracted with a copy of Swift's <em>A Modest Proposal<em>. He found the reverend in the garden, pacing absentmindedly between the chard and the summer squash. He was reading a philosophical treatise by David Hume. Occasionally he paused to turn a page. He did not look up when Philip approached.

"Why didn't you warn her that could happen?"

"Why didn't you?" Reverend Lawrence returned, deadpan. Philip started to make a reply and then realized he didn't have one. The reverend regarded him patiently. "She was going to have to face society sooner or later. I thought sooner would be better than later."

"So she could be surrounded by people who assumed she was an illegitimate tavern-"

"All perfectly reasonable assumptions," Reverend Lawrence interrupted. "Philip, you were abducted by Blackbeard, and everyone knows how rarely he takes captives. No one would expect you to meet a respectable girl journeying with him." He closed the book, removed his spectacles and placed them in the pocket of his waistcoat. "I doubt most of them disdain her for it. They certainly won't invite her into the elite circles any time soon, but they're eager to make her acquaintance. Church folk tend to embrace redeemed souls as a rule."

_A good half of them need redemption more than she does_, he thought. He had heard before that God did not rank sins, and all sinners were equal in his eyes. It was not his place to judge. Nevertheless he found the idea of the Ramsay family redeeming Syrena hard to swallow. His jaw tensed. "I won't have them parading her around like a spectacle to flaunt their piety."

"You seem to have a very low opinion of your fellow Christians," the reverend observed.

"I was listening," Philip replied evenly.

"If you were listening that closely, you would have noticed no one said a word against her, except for one impressively tactless nineteen-year-old girl."

"No one said a word in her defense either," Philip returned.

"What were they supposed to say? No one knows what godless places you were forced to sail to on the _Queen Anne's Revenge_. For all they know, Blackbeard picked her up in a brothel in Hispaniola."

Philip was finding it harder to keep his composure. Hearing the reverend repeat the same slander, even knowing he didn't actually believe it, almost made him miss the days he'd spent with Blackbeard's crew when he could shout at any of them and not care who was offended. "They could have at least given her the benefit of the doubt."

"I will not say they were perfect," Reverend Lawrence conceded. "They had their preconceptions, yes. But they also took time to converse with her. And I think more than a few of them saw a polite, soft-spoken young lady who met rudeness with grace."

"So you only invited her to church to test her," Philip said coldly.

The reverend looked at him sadly. "You're half-right," he said. He folded his hands behind his back and drummed his fingers on the book cover. "But I'm afraid the test was never about her. Syrena's doing brilliantly. You're the one who can't seem to adapt."

* * *

><p>Covering her mouth with her wrist, Syrena tried to conceal a small yawn. She still felt guilty for falling asleep during the reverend's sermon. He wasn't in the library now, but it troubled her to think about how he must have felt seeing her in church. He probably thought his words had bored her, when in all honesty he wasn't a bad speaker. She could never prove that to him, though, when she couldn't remember what the sermon had been about. There had been a pillar of fire and a red sea and a suggestion to solve poverty by eating small children…<em>No<em>, she corrected herself. _No, that was what I read ten minutes ago_. It frustrated her to feel all the details she wanted to hold onto swirling together and slipping away. She thought lack of sleep must be slowing her mind.

She shifted her book further up her knees, grateful to be seated on the floor again. Ephraim and Simon were debating some deep theological issue that eluded her. She discovered she rather liked being surrounded by people, even if she couldn't actively participate in the conversation. In Whitecap Bay she had sometimes watched the mermaids dancing at night, scattering droplets of sea water like diamonds as they leapt and twirled in the black waves. She had never joined them. Tamara would have welcomed her, but Syrena thought it would feel hypocritical to join them in the dance but not in the hunt. Lately, though, she had begun to wonder if she hadn't met Philip, if in another forty or fifty years she would have thrown herself into Tamara's arms just to escape the loneliness.

The back door slammed open, and Reverend Lawrence strode inside with Philip behind him. The reverend shrugged off his black coat and hung it on the metal tree below his hat.

"Welcome back," Simon said dryly. "Is he fit for civilized company now?" He glanced up at Reverend Lawrence, who placed a reassuring hand on Philip's shoulder.

"He'll do," the reverend replied. Philip sank down onto the floor next to her, looking tight-lipped and a little drained. She wondered if she should tell him that she had overheard most of what had been said in the garden. She hadn't wanted to, but at the same time she couldn't exactly help it. It would be better for all of them if she could learn to close her ears. It wasn't fair for them to have to walk a mile away for a private conversation.

"I didn't realize our voices carried that far in the church," Philip said with an exhausted smile.

Simon raised his eyebrows. "It was a little scary, mate. Looked like you wanted to strangle the girl," he remarked.

"You obviously heard what she said," Philip replied, the earlier edge returning to his voice.

Simon snorted. "Yes, and Charlotte Ramsay has always been a paragon of politeness. It never bothered you like that before."

"It was very romantic," Syrena noted. She closed her book and set it aside on the floor. Another sharp, familiar cramp shot through her fingers, but fortunately Philip wasn't looking.

"I noticed you never got around to introductions," said Ephraim. Philip responded with a half-hearted nod. With all the etiquette pitfalls they'd had to avoid, there hadn't been room to insert names into the conversation. "I was just thinking," Ephraim continued, "that you might want to consider introducing her by her last name the next time you have the chance. A _miss_ tends to command a little more respect. What is your surname?" he asked her.

"Redwood," Syrena answered automatically, at the same time Philip said, "Winter-"

A moment of silent panic followed, which probably felt longer than it was. Philip recovered first. He glanced at her in swift apology. "My mistake. That was your mother," he said.

"All right," Ephraim replied with an indifferent shrug. Syrena relaxed. He spared her a polite nod, unsmiling, but Ephraim rarely smiled. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Redwood."

Simon looked at her and frowned. "Unless…You don't have any older sisters, do you, Syrena?"

Ephraim groaned. "Is it ever exhausting for you, thinking up new ways to be tactless?"

"I'm not-" Simon protested, but apparently he realized whatever he claimed he _was not_, he actually _was_. He closed his mouth and opened it again. "I'm just thinking about what's proper," he said, fisting his hands over his knees. Ephraim rolled his eyes. He clearly had his own opinion about this.

"Fine." He rubbed his forehead and began to explain, very slowly. "It's true that in proper terms, if Syrena had any sisters, the eldest would carry the name Miss Redwood, and we would have to introduce her as Miss Syrena. But I think for fairly obvious reasons, that is not the case." Ephraim glanced at her for confirmation. Simon's face flushed red.

"I don't have any sisters," Syrena answered to fill the silence. It was an honest answer, though not as honest as it could have been. More truthful would have been, _I had sisters, but I lost them four hundred years ago_, or, _I could have had sisters, but I did not like the ones I found_. She was surprised Ephraim thought the question would hurt her. But then, she had to remember they all believed she had lost her family ten years ago. It was difficult for her to think on timescales so short.

"I'm sorry, Syrena," Simon said awkwardly. He cleared his throat and amended, "Miss Redwood."

"Really, it's fine." Her fingers twitched as another spasm of pain shot through them. This time Philip did notice, and he frowned. She looked away, sensing he would not let her casually dismiss it as she had before. Thankfully he did not call attention to it in front of the others. He waited until Simon and Ephraim were absorbed in their own conversation, and then he took her right hand in his left. "Would you come with me to the kitchen?" he asked her quietly.

They passed through the music room and the dining room without speaking. The kitchen was a tiny, smoky room, with barely enough space for three people to move around without rubbing shoulders. Her eyes watered, and she wondered why Philip would bring her to the most confining place in the house. He knelt down to inspect the base of the stove, where the fire was starting to dwindle. He nudged the embers back to life with a pair of tongs. Then he replaced the tea kettle on top with a pot of hot water and dropped a fresh rag inside. As an afterthought, he added a dash of salt.

"Why did you choose Winter?" she asked curiously. He paused a moment before responding. She suspected he wasn't entirely sure himself, or he was thinking very hard about how to phrase the answer.

"Because that was how you acted in the jungle," he said finally. "There was a coldness about you. In the way you held yourself, and the way you avoided looking at anyone. It was as though you had built a wall of ice around yourself so no one could touch you." His face colored. "Not that I blame you," he added quickly.

"And now?" she asked primly. The color in his cheeks deepened. A half-embarrassed smile started to cross his face. Then he shook his head and turned to her, all seriousness again. She swallowed, knowing he would not allow her to change the subject a second time. The throbbing in her hands began to flare more intensely.

"Syrena, how long has this been going on?"

"A few weeks," she answered, wrapping her arms around her waist and contemplating the floorboards. She raised her head hopefully. "It was getting better. There was a week when I didn't feel anything at all." If she had thought that remark would make him feel better, she had been wrong. The crease in his brow grew darker. He turned back to the stove. The silence in the space between them felt thick enough to suffocate. She knew he was bothered not just because she was in pain, but because she had chosen not to tell him about it, and she couldn't even think of a good reason why.

When the water in the pot reached a rolling boil, Philip removed the rag with the iron tongs and wrung out the excess water. Thick clouds of steam twisted upwards to the ceiling. Taking her arm again, he guided her back into the dining room. With methodical politeness he pulled out a chair and placed her hands on the table. "When does it usually happen?" he asked as he sat down next to her.

"Mornings, mostly," she said. "A few times after writing."

He looked at the table thoughtfully and began to fold the scarlet rag over her fingers. The sudden warmth made her shiver. "Sometimes," he said, wrapping the cloth around her hands, "my grandmother felt a stiffness in her joints as well. My mother used to do this for her. It would help the muscles relax."

Syrena closed her eyes. The warmth was spreading from her wrists to her shoulders, and her fingers felt like they were melting in a delightfully hot spring. She tried to imagine Philip sitting with his family watching his mother and his grandmother, but he had spoken of them so rarely, she didn't know what to picture. She knew he had been an only child and that his father was not a priest; beyond that she knew next to nothing.

"Your mother was a very good physician," she remarked. Something in his face relaxed. His fingers continued to massage the outside of her hands through the towel. He glanced up, and for a moment it looked like he wanted to do something more, but the moment passed and he looked down at the table again. Syrena looked out the window and tried not to feel rejected.

He had a deep sense of honor that she respected. Whenever they had allowed themselves a few wild moments in Whitecap Bay, with no one but the birds and sky to notice them, she had always felt the presence of an unspoken boundary: _Here, and no farther._ Only now that they were back among people, Philip seemed to think that boundary had turned into a barricade. Even when they were alone, his kindness to her resembled that of a brother, not a lover.

"Are you sleeping well?" she asked abruptly. Over the last several days she had noticed that his eyelids looked heavy, and his skin had grown paler since they had left the island. She wondered if his memories still gave him nightmares. She had liked being the one to smooth them away as he slept, and a part of her wanted to think he missed her at night the way she missed him, but a larger part wanted to believe they had left him in peace by now.

"Well enough," he answered with an ironic smile. _Means no_, Syrena thought. She didn't like the idea of him waking from his dark dreams alone. However, the only kind of comfort she knew how to offer was not the sort he would welcome right now. She looked down, feeling the weight of their separate solitudes even as they sat less than three feet apart. There was an impasse between them, and neither one knew how to break it.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said quietly after another few minutes of silence. He gave her another half-smile and pressed her fingers through the towel, which was starting to lose its warmth. _Winter and ice_, she thought as their shadows lengthened across the table. _The one building walls now is you._


	5. Chapter 5

_Dear Philip,_

_It's been several days since your last letter arrived. It's hard to know what to write, considering that whatever I say from Cornwall will reach you two months after the fact. It took the pastor some time to find a new assistant when you left. (I'm sure you can imagine no one takes a post in a village like ours for the money.) The new deacon is a shier man than you, with an occasional stutter, but he has a caring soul. He is also married, so less likely to accidentally break hearts. Though he seldom says it, our pastor still considers you his successor and wishes you would come back to watch over the parish after he retires. The selfish mother in me often wishes that too._

_Darcy Whitmore is engaged. The shoemaker's son Rob proposed to her after the midsummer festival last week. Their families have been friends for years, but somehow everyone was still surprised. Perhaps because Rob has always been so much quieter than his older brother. He lights up enough around her, though. _

_Our neighbors ask about you often. Some of them wonder if you've turned missionary on us for good. You were never the wandering type, but they say the sea changes a man. There are days I picture you working under the Barbados sun and wonder if I would recognize you now. I don't know what you were searching for when you left us, and I'm not certain you knew yourself. I pray that you find it soon. Reverend Anton seems like a good man from your description. I trust in him and in God to keep you safe._

_Yours ever,_

_Lydia Swift_

Philip pushed the letter across the desk, conflicted. His mother's graceful handwriting was as familiar as always, yet the letter felt like something foreign. He had known when he broke the seal that it had been written months before he'd become entangled with pirates and mermaids and Spaniards. She obviously thought him perfectly safe at the time, and he was reluctant to disillusion her. On the other hand, his failure to write for the last eleven weeks must have made her anxious. He would need to write a response but was at a complete loss on what to say. _What do you write to someone you can probably never see again?_

He rotated the letter in his hands, as though the answers might come if he read it upside-down. He supposed the truth was always an option. _Our mission was destroyed by zombies. Blackbeard murdered Reverend Anton. There's an amnesia-inducing tree of life a couple miles from our backyard. Your future daughter-in-law is a mermaid. _

Shoving aside the larger picture, he decided to focus on the details. Darcy was getting married…_Good for her_, Philip thought. It had saddened him that he hadn't been able to love her the way she wanted him to. By now she must have realized she hadn't truly loved him either. What she had felt in the weeks before he left was infatuation, fueled by his perhaps-overdone kindness towards her family. He had worried about her, though.

Philip closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. A part of him desperately wanted to go back to something tame and familiar. It wasn't an impossible idea. They would have to live somewhere. They couldn't stay in Cornwall forever, but for five or ten years…Then again, he wasn't sure how his parents would react if he tried telling them the truth, and the thought of spending five or ten years deceiving them sent a dull ache through his chest. It was hard enough in Reverend Lawrence's house. And he remembered how terrible the voyage to Barbados had been for Syrena, which had lasted only two weeks. He was in no hurry to put her through that again.

"Coming to breakfast?"

Philip turned at the voice that had broken his reverie. Julian bent his head through the door. At six foot five, there wasn't a door in the house he didn't have to stoop to get under. With his muscular frame and unruly blond hair, he wouldn't have looked out of place as one of Blackbeard's bodyguards, though Philip had noticed Blackbeard tended to prefer his bodyguards brainless.

"In a bit," he replied. Julian shrugged.

"Fair enough. It's gotten cold already, another half hour or so won't make a difference."

"Syrena?" Philip asked on reflex.

"She's eaten. Didn't fancy the sausage or the eggs, mind, and she wouldn't touch the black pudding, but she liked the scones and marmalade enough." Philip suppressed a smile. Syrena's peculiar eating habits had mostly gone without question, he suspected at Reverend Lawrence's instruction. The four clergymen seemed to accept her aversion to cooked meat as one of the eccentricities born of castaway life. Julian leaned against the door with calculated nonchalance. "She went for a walk in the garden with Simon about a quarter of an hour ago."

The taller clergyman seemed to expect this news to unsettle him. As unfair as it was to begrudge Syrena the company of other people, Philip was forced to admit that it had. In the shadow of the doorway he felt Julian's eyes observing his reaction. He tried to keep his face stoic. "I don't think he's trying to steal her away, if that's what you're worried about," Julian remarked when Philip failed to answer.

That time he found it easy enough to respond with a laugh. Jealousy was not an emotion he was familiar with, and he was grateful for a reason to shrug it off. Approving of his reaction, Julian stooped down further and entered the room. "Not sure if you'd noticed, but we've all been treating her like she's your girl until you say otherwise."

"Until?" Philip asked, half-joking.

"Until you say," Julian repeated. "Though the way you've been acting, a couple people are starting to wonder. Including her, I might add."

Philip started to object, but thinking it through he realized he hadn't made any overtly romantic gestures toward Syrena in the company of other people. In all honesty he couldn't remember a time since alighting at Bridgetown that he'd been anything but neighborly to her.

"There wasn't time," he said, unsure how else to explain it. Reverend Lawrence had been right, he couldn't assume Syrena would want to be with him simply because he was the first decent man she'd encountered, but he had also wanted more time, to court her properly instead of naively expecting an island romance to fuel a multicentennial marriage. He rubbed his forehead. "She has enough on her mind. It would be wrong to take advantage."

Julian strode across the floor and seated himself on the bed beside the desk without asking permission. "I see. You're trying to act like a gentleman. Problem is, she's not a lady."

"She is-" Philip protested.

"She's _not_." Julian rubbed his hands along his thighs thoughtfully. "She's doing her best, I'll grant her that. But anyone can tell this whole polite society routine's got her flummoxed. And it's not just the silverware. She's not used to social artifice." He shrugged. "You're acting diffident, she assumes you mean it."

Philip drummed his fingers against the desk. "I can't just go propose to her right now, or…" His mind wasn't ready to follow where the rest of that sentence would lead.

"No, but you might stop treating her like she's somebody's kid sister." Julian regarded him shrewdly. "She's not asking you to sacrifice your entire upbringing. She wants a little more of you, not everything."

"By the way," Julian added, standing up, "The reverend and the rest of us are going into town today to visit a few of our sick brethren in Christ. Standard procedure. Have to make sure they have a decent excuse for skipping church. We're usually gone for a long time."

Julian took care to emphasize the last two words. Philip almost groaned at the transparency of the hint. "He'll expect me to want to come as well," he pointed out, which was true. It had been some time since he'd had the chance to seek out the company of other people in need, and he missed the feeling of reaching out to strangers. Julian straightened and made for the door.

"I'll tell him I forgot to tell you. Or that you're writing your mother. You should do that too."

* * *

><p>He found Syrena in the music room, seated on the floor with her back against the sofa. A snow-colored writing quill quivered in her left hand. Over her knees she traced the pages of a thick mahogany Bible. With Reverend Lawrence and the others gone, the house was quiet except for the occasional rustle when she shifted her feet beneath her skirt. Philip entered softly, knowing that to her ears the lightest step was as audible as a gunshot.<p>

"The people in your book do not like the sea very much," Syrena observed with a frown as he crossed the threshold. Philip considered this and realized she had a point. A cataclysmic flood, a man swallowed by a giant fish, at least half a dozen episodes of someone quelling a storm at sea…it was not a very favorable portrayal.

"I think that is because they were afraid of it," he said, joining her on the floor. She fingered the quill thoughtfully. The response seemed to gratify her. Curious, he peered over her shoulder at the passage lying open and read aloud.

"_You stirred up the sea in your might, you smashed the heads of the dragons on the waters.  
>You crushed the heads of Leviathan, tossed him for food to the sharks.<br>You opened up springs and torrents, brought dry land out of the primeval waters.  
>Yours the day and yours the night, you set the moon and sun in place.<br>You fixed all the limits of the earth, summer and winter you made."_

The words hung in the air for several seconds. It was an obscure psalm, and he wondered how she had chanced to stumble upon it. "The reverend helped me find it," she said, anticipating his unspoken question. "At breakfast I asked if any of his books had stories of the ocean, and he told me to look here." _That was a dangerous thing to ask,_ Philip thought. Looking at the Bible more closely he noticed the corners of several pages were folded down. He suspected if opened they would reveal the stories of Noah, Jonah and the parting of the Red Sea.

He leaned closer to her while another thought tugged at his memory. "Syrena," he began. He cleared his throat, unsure exactly how to phrase the question. It had been circling in the back of his mind for some time, but there had never been a safe time to ask it, with the chance that Reverend Lawrence or someone else in the house might overhear. "Where do mermaids come from? That is, how were your people created?"

She peered at him quizzically over the Bible. "You don't know?" He shook his head, and her eyebrows rose in surprise. "All your books…none of them mention merpeople?"

"Not one," he said. "Do merfolk even believe in God?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course we believe in God, Philip," she told him, slightly exasperated. Her reaction surprised him. He realized he'd been assuming that when it came to God she was a complete tabula rasa. It had never occurred to him that mermaids could have mythologies and theologies of their own. Then again, he supposed that assumption was irrational; almost every culture believed in some type of divine power.

"I'm sorry. I honestly had no idea." She favored him with a small smile, and he relaxed, curiosity tugging more strongly at his chest. "How did he create them - you?"

Syrena sat up a little straighter. She looked pleased to be asked. Putting the frayed quill in the Bible to mark her place, she closed the book and set it on the sofa. "Leviathan," she began, "was God's first creation. An enormous sea serpent thousands of leagues long, with a hundred heads. His breath was so hot the ocean boiled whenever he dove underwater. He entertained God, for twenty or thirty millennia. Of course, eventually God became bored and wanted to create something else, but nothing could live in an ocean full of Leviathan. So God created slumber. Leviathan closed his eyes to sleep for fifty thousand years. After a while the sea cooled, and the parts of his body that stuck out of the water became land."

"So we're all living on the back of a giant sea serpent," Philip said slowly, trying very hard to keep his face as solemn as hers. "And I suppose the ark, and the Flood…"

"Leviathan rolled over," she explained. "Volcanoes erupt when he snores. Or bleeds," she added as an afterthought. Philip had to avert his eyes for a moment. The struggle to maintain a serious frown was becoming increasingly difficult, but he was determined not to laugh at her theology.

"Once Leviathan was asleep, God created Calypso," Syrena continued. "After Calypso came the merfolk and the ashrays and the grindylows and the Vodianoi. When Calypso abandoned Davy Jones, God created the Kraken so he wouldn't be lonely. Life will go on in the ocean until Leviathan wakes up. Then the Age of Calypso will end. Calypso will go into hiding for fifty thousand years, and everything else will die."

"That's very…" His voice trailed off. _Depressing_ came to mind first, and nothing else followed. He regarded her with concern. "Your people really believe evil triumphs in the end?" he asked. Syrena looked shocked.

"Of course not," she replied. "I never said anything about evil. It's just the way things are."

Philip propped his elbow on the sofa, feeling more lost than before. At first her story had seemed like a simple myth of the good Calypso replacing the demon Leviathan. But whenever sailors spoke of Calypso, she never came across as particularly benevolent. He was beginning to wonder if mermaids even had concepts of good or evil. Perhaps nothing in the sea fell into those categories, and everything was just…wild. He glanced at her, perplexed. "If a fire-breathing sea monster with a hundred heads isn't evil, what is?"

Syrena hesitated. Her fingers plucked at the carpet awkwardly. She seemed reluctant to voice this part of her philosophy aloud. "You," she said after a beat. Observing the alarm in his face, she quickly corrected, "Not _you_, you. Just…you. All of you."

She evidently realized that remark wasn't very reassuring. Her face flushed and she glanced down, folding her hands in her lap. "I mean to say, your species is the result of a mistake."

"A mistake," Philip repeated, thinking that her second rephrasing hadn't made it sound much better.

"A crime," Syrena clarified. She paused to look out the window, apparently collecting her thoughts. "You must understand, Philip. Your…_morality_ is strange to us. The Vodianoi and the grindylows prey on the weak, but no one thinks of punishing them, because it is their nature to be predators. We have only one law, and that is the natural law." She studied his face briefly to see if he was following her. "About twenty thousand years ago, a school of merfolk decided they did not want the Age of Calypso to end. They decided to kill Leviathan. They thought that since he has many heads but only one heart, if they destroyed the heart he would die.

"For centuries, they explored every cavern and volcano in the sea, searching for the heart of Leviathan. It was not easy, but they did find it. A ten-mile cavern under the seafloor made of black and silver mica and quartz. For the next few decades they tried to tear it down. But instead of killing him, they woke him up. The result was a…I saw the word somewhere…a _catisstrope_."

"Catastrophe," Philip said automatically.

Syrena looked skeptical. "Really?"

Philip shrugged, reluctant explain the peculiarities of English spelling and pronunciation just then when it was obviously a tangent. Syrena still looked dubious, but she continued.

"Well, it was. A catastrophe. God put Leviathan back to sleep, but not before he had destroyed almost half the life in the sea. God could have killed those merfolk, but he chose to make an example of them instead. Something that would last. He exiled them from the sea and condemned them to crawl on Leviathan's back. Then he shortened their lives, so they would live for decades instead of centuries. Now whenever one of our kind passes the shore, we see the humans that were once merpeople and remember."

She glanced at him again. He did not see disapproval in her face, but there was a sad resignation. "That is why you are evil," she explained. "You try to make things last forever. They don't."

Philip leaned back, needing the extra space to process what he had just heard. His religion had no place for mermaids, but her religion clearly had a place for humanity. _Fallen angels exiled to a barren land._ That phrasing was a bit over the top; still, he preferred that description to a race of deformed merpeople. Syrena peered at him anxiously. "I understand if your heritage shocks you…"

"It explains a few things," he admitted. "I suppose all merpeople think we're a race of selfish, murderous monsters."

"Not all," she said placatingly. "Some of us feel sorry for you." There was a note of gentle patronization in her voice. It struck him that in her own matter-of-fact way, Syrena had a snobbish streak. He supposed it was only natural. With that kind of mythology, of course she would consider her own race superior. Philip leaned forward again and adjusted his elbow on the sofa.

"Do you think we're evil?" he asked. He half-regretted the question as soon as it had left his mouth. This wasn't the direction he'd wanted this conversation to take, but now that they were in it, he couldn't see a way out. Syrena shifted uncomfortably.

"I told you. You are different," she said in a quiet voice. _That wasn't what I asked_, Philip thought.

"Do you think we are evil?" he repeated, careful to place the emphasis on the plural pronoun. He scanned her face for any sign of doubt or distrust. She averted her eyes, and a shadow crossed her face.

"Sometimes," she replied with a shrug. "Sometimes you think so too," she pointed out, and he knew she was referring to the night in the jungle when he had told Blackbeard he was damned. But where Philip had considered Blackbeard the exception, Syrena seemed to think Blackbeard was the rule.

"And what about Reverend Lawrence?" he pressed evenly. "Simon? The other men in the house?" He hadn't raised his voice, and he didn't want her to feel attacked, but at the same time he needed to hear a straight answer from her own mouth. Meanwhile the answers he wanted to demand remained unspoken, circling silently in his mind._ Tell me why you followed me to land. Tell me why you're willing to spend eight hundred years in a woman's body if being human is such a disgrace._

Her eyelids lowered under the intensity of his gaze. "I don't know," she said finally. "I have not decided yet."

Philip leaned back again. He felt he had pushed her too far, but he also felt there hadn't been anything he could have done differently. Flushed, Syrena reached for the Bible. "I think I would like to read some more." She did not say _alone_, but the way she curled her legs and opened it possessively across her knees implied it. Taking the hint, Philip stood. There were a dozen polite things to say when leaving a room, but at the moment he couldn't for the life of him think what any of them were.

For her part, Syrena pulled her knees closer to her chest. He thought he saw her glance at him out of the corner of her eye as he started to leave, but the next instant he was convinced he'd imagined it. As he left the room, he heard her murmur softly to herself, "_Yours the day and yours the nig-hit. Night. Night. Catastrophe._"

* * *

><p>Grey afternoon passed to an evening without stars, and the clouds that had been threatening rain all day poured down in wind-driven torrents. Syrena had forgotten to close the window in her room. When she entered after supper she found her sheets and pillows sagging in a small pool of water; she hadn't moved them away from the window since the restless first night indoors. She hurried to lower the sash, but the damage was done. Flexing her fingers, she scooped up the water-logged pile and tried to ignore the sting of freshwater against her bare skin. Carefully she draped the sheets over the bedposts, where they hung like pale, drowned ghosts.<p>

_Perhaps they'll dry by morning_, she thought as she pulled her sleeping shift over her head, knowing the odds were slim. She lay down on the mattress and prepared herself for a long, cold night.

The rain hammered against the glass like a stampede of wild horses galloping down the walls. Furiously she clapped her hands over her ears. She was used to listening to storms from miles underwater, if she heard them at all. A loud rumble that sounded like an explosion rattled the windows and nearly caused her to tumble off the bed. She caught herself on the edge of the mattress. Another flash of lightning illuminated the sheets hanging limply around her. Shaking, she rolled closer toward the center, with the uncanny feeling she was sleeping on a shipwreck steered by a phantom crew.

The second crack echoed like a musket shot. Syrena bolted upright. How anyone in the house could sleep through this, human or not, was beyond her comprehension. She dug her fingers into the mattress. _I will go mad if I stay in this room. I am quite certain I will go mad._

Taking a slow breath, she rose to her feet and opened the door. Outside, the hallway was empty and shrouded in a grey so dark it was almost black. Evidently the rest of the house was weathering the storm behind closed doors. _I will go the library_, she thought. _There are candles and books and enormous dry pillows, and no one will notice if I steal one._ She stepped onto the staircase, but no sooner had she reached the second step when another crack of thunder made the walls shake. Her mind suddenly reeled with visions of books tumbling off shelves and carpets catching fire from fallen candles. The library wouldn't be safe during a storm, not when she could burn the entire house down just by trying to read in the dark. She leaned against the wall and weighed her options. Resolved, she crossed the hallway to the room farthest on the left and, as quietly as she dared, rapped on the door. Her breath caught when it opened.

"I couldn't read," she said quickly. "Sleep. I couldn't sleep."

Philip stared at her in the doorway for half a second that felt like half an hour. She couldn't tell if he was pleased or displeased to see her outside his room, in the middle of the night, in her sleeping gown. His brow darkened, and for one horrible moment she thought he was angry. A moment later his face relaxed. Beneath the creases above his eyes, he looked almost relieved. "Come inside," he said.

He shut the door behind her. She couldn't help noticing that his bedroom was smaller than hers, though an enormous ebony mirror propped against the wall made it look larger than it was. A pitifully short candle flickered defiantly on the writing desk, and there were wax stains on the surface. He had obviously been burning it for multiple nights. "You always study late?" she asked. He ran his fingers absentmindedly over his temple.

"I was...writing a letter," he said, deflecting the question. The room brightened and blackened in another silent flash. Syrena bit her lip. She felt she should explain that she had not come here to seduce him when a fourth crack of thunder ripped the air apart. Without thinking, Syrena seized his hands and plastered them over her ears. The action brought her head less than an inch from his chest. She didn't look up to see if the movement had shocked him. When the thunder subsided she let her arms drop.

"Please," she said quietly. "Please, I didn't mean_-" I didn't mean to force my company on you. I didn't mean to make you tear down your walls. I didn't mean to make you think I look down on the people you love._

Without removing his hands from her ears, he leaned against the wall and sank to the floor, pulling her with him. "Violent storms are shorter," he said. "It'll be gone in a couple hours." Syrena knew he meant there was time, and though she would have to slip out before dawn, they had two entire hours that no one could take from them. Closing her eyes, she nestled her head against his shoulder. His right arm dropped to her waist while his left hand remained over her other ear.

She did not remember falling asleep, but when she opened her eyes again the rain had faded into a soft drumming on the timber roof, and the thunder growled quietly in retreat. The candle on the desk had burnt itself out. Syrena rolled onto her side. Philip had fallen asleep with one arm around her and the other propped underneath his head. Taking care not to disturb him, she rose quietly and opened the window. A marvelously fresh breeze flooded the room with the fragrance of pomegranates and hibiscus. As she padded toward the door, she paused at the enormous ebony mirror against the wall. Curiously, she rubbed the grains of sleep out of her eyes. When the next flash of lightning illuminated the room, the reflection that stared back at her was not her own.

* * *

><p><em>AN: The Leviathan passage was from Psalm 74. One astute reviewer (ProdigiousSingleton) pointed out that Philip should be reading from the King James Bible, as opposed to the New American Bible that I've been quoting. This is true. I've decided to keep using the New American passages, for the completely arbitrary reason that I think they sound better. But it is another historical inaccuracy that I thought I should acknowledge. Another reviewer (annarky92) pointed out that there's a short German opera called The Flying Dutchman (Der Fliegende Hollander) about Davy Jones. PoTC obviously took some license with the storyline. Both versions are pretty._

_Thanks for all the encouragement. Next chapter will see the return of Tamara and the plot._


	6. Chapter 6

Philip opened his eyes to a world transformed. His room, which had looked so orderly when he had closed them, was in complete disarray. The window had been thrown open, and the floor beneath it was covered in tamarind leaves and golden flowers. A careless breeze had upended the candle on the desk and scattered letters and blank parchment across the bed. A few feet from the wall, a group of yellow finches was chattering shrilly as they sorted through the leaves on the floor. To his eyes it looked like some wild spirit had passed through the window during the night and turned the room into a miniature jungle while he'd been asleep.

Rubbing his neck, he got to his feet and startled the finches off the floor. He certainly had no complaints; he'd slept better than he had in weeks. He leaned out the window to savor the clear scent of morning, saturated with dew-soaked grass and citrus. _I'm young and free and I'm going to live to be eight hundred_. For the first time he could remember, the thought excited him more than it troubled him.

Philip pulled his head back in the room, feeling slightly delirious. He thought he should toss the leaves and blossoms out the window, but the idea of so callously eradicating Syrena's presence from the room depressed him. If anyone asked about the mess, he could always claim he'd opened the window himself. A part of him flinched at the prospect of lying, but at that moment getting rid of the greenery felt like a greater crime.

Syrena. He wondered when she had left. A light gust of wind troubled the foliage around his ankles. The trees outside the windowsill glistened with droplets from last night's rain. Against the grey clouds, the crimsons and purples and emeralds shone with the brilliance of cavern gemstones. He discovered he had no desire to stay indoors. Beyond the walls of the mission house an entire island was beckoning them to explore. Even waiting an hour to eat breakfast felt like an insufferable delay. Shrugging, Philip crossed the room and pushed the door open. _It's not as though there's nothing to eat outside._

Syrena's door was shut, which he had assumed it would be. Unperturbed, he knocked. The sound echoed across the empty hall. He wondered if he should be worried that someone would hear. He hadn't ever visited her bedroom before, but there really wasn't anything wrong with it. Leaning against the doorframe, he waited. There was no answer. Thinking she might have gone downstairs, he knocked again to be certain and heard a vague rustling behind the door.

"Syrena?" he called uncertainly. "Did I wake you?"

"Nothing is wrong. I am not hungry, that is all."

Philip leaned closer to the door. Her reply, aside from making very little sense, came almost too quickly to sound natural. "Syrena, is everything all right?"

"No - yes. I'm fine. Please go away." The closed door muffled her voice, but he thought it sounded shaky and cracked. He hesitated. If she honestly didn't want him around, he didn't want to force himself on her. Then again, if something was seriously wrong, he didn't want her to feel she had to go through it alone. His hand lingered in front of the door a moment longer.

"Do you really want me to go?" he asked, keeping his voice as neutral as possible. The silence stretched for almost a minute. Another faint rustling stirred in her room, followed by a dull click as she unbolted the lock. The door itself remained closed. Philip waited a few seconds before opening it. As soon as he did, he had to catch himself on the doorframe because the person he saw inside – and thank God she was staring out the window, because he had no idea what kinds of emotions were passing across his face just then – looked nothing like Syrena.

A strange woman sat on the far side of the room gazing outside. The bed had been stripped bare, and a nest of sheets and pillows piled around her on the floor. Under the sleeves of her nightgown, her arms looked thin and shriveled and her hair, with a luster that was almost painful to look at, was an immaculate white. Philip remained rooted in the doorway. Several long seconds passed, and he still didn't trust himself to move. While he stared transfixed, her hands began to shake. _She's in pain,_ he realized mechanically, and the routine instinct to help propelled him forward.

The floorboards creaked as he walked toward the old woman by the window. He was sure she must have heard him, but she didn't turn until he was kneeling in front of her. Her hazel eyes widened, and her mouth curved into a soft, tentative smile. Beneath the spider webs and crow's feet crisscrossing her face, he recognized the expression of hopeful hesitance he had always found so enthralling. This was, undoubtedly, his Syrena.

"You should not have to see me like this. Not presentable." She averted her eyes and began to smooth the wrinkles out of the sheets, even as the motion increased the trembling in her hands. "Nothing to worry about," she insisted.

_This is normal?_ Philip thought numbly. He reached down and grasped her wrists, which by now were shaking so violently they almost appeared in danger of falling off. They felt like ice between his fingers. "Just tell me how long this has been going on."

"Not so long as this," she answered, gesturing to her hands. A hoarse laugh escaped her throat. He could tell she was doing her best to make light of it, but every time she spoke her voice came out in a whisper like the crackling of autumn leaves.

He adjusted his grip on her wrists. "How long?" he repeated.

"This morning. Yes. I think…unless…" Her hands buried themselves in her hair. For the next few minutes it looked as though her entire body was consumed with the effort of remembering. Philip felt a dull weight sinking in his stomach. If this sudden onslaught of old age had started this morning, his first instinct told him something he'd done the night before must have caused it. But they had fallen asleep in each others' arms for weeks on the island and aboard the _Morning Mercy_ and nothing like this had ever happened. Syrena closed her eyes and rocked backwards on her heels.

"This morning," she said finally. "I'm certain. Quite certain. But you mustn't…mustn't be frightened, Philip. It really is nothing…to worry about…"

Philip thought this was a rather optimistic analysis. But at the same time he didn't want to talk Syrena into panicking when she was obviously trying very hard not to. When she looked up, she must have seen some of the doubt lingering on his face. "Honestly. It's a…a phase. My body is just confused, that's all."

"Confused," he echoed. Something in his throat tightened as another troubling suspicion began to take shape in his mind. "Is this because of what you did for me at Whitecap?" he asked.

Her gaze shifted. Since the evening after they had escaped the Fountain of Youth, they hadn't ever talked about the price Syrena had paid to save his life. He sensed this was more for his sake than for hers. He hadn't taken it very well when she had first told him, and she didn't want him to feel indebted. "It's possible," she answered carefully. "It's possible that after my body…_lost_ so many years, it needs time to figure out exactly how old I am now."

Philip exhaled slowly and ran his fingers through his hair. He didn't feel at all prepared to deal with this. He'd expected her to age more quickly than other mermaids, since her lifespan was now so much shorter than theirs, but she wasn't supposed to age faster than _him_, and she certainly wasn't supposed to swing wildly from young girl to arthritic grandmother. He took her hands again. The shaking hadn't stopped, though it had lessened somewhat.

"Have other mermaids done this before?" he asked. At this point he was willing to take any information he could get, even if it came from a half-baked legend that ran directly against Scripture.

"A few," she said. "I only heard the - the stories, but I think there was an…adjustment period. Of a sort."

"Why hasn't anything like this happened to me?"

"I don't know, Philip," she said crossly, and the impatience in her voice betrayed just how terrified she truly was. Swallowing, he shifted his grip on her hands and tried to look calmer than he felt.

"We need to figure out what to tell the others," he said.

She nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course…Philip, I don't want them to see me like this. It will pass, I'm sure of it…"

Philip began to wrack his brain for some pretext Syrena could use for wanting to be left alone. The most plausible excuse would be that she was simply sick, but knowing Reverend Lawrence and the other priests, they would go out of their way to make sure she started feeling better. For once he wished he'd taken her some place where the people weren't so damned good. "We could tell them you have a headache," he suggested tiredly. "A skull-splitting headache, and even the smallest sound leaves you in mortal agony."

"They will think I was drunk last night," Syrena pointed out.

"Then we'll have to hope Reverend Lawrence doesn't have any medicine for hangovers. He might trying giving it to you," Philip answered, a bit surprised at how cavalierly he could talk about deception.

Syrena nodded again, but her mind was clearly somewhere else. She resumed fingering the creases on the sheets. "If you think that will work," she said indifferently. Privately Philip had his doubts. It wasn't a great alibi, but he would enjoy seeing the look on Simon's face when he learned he wasn't allowed to make any loud noises within a quarter-mile radius of the house. Ephraim would probably be able to keep him in line. Of the four men living with them, Ephraim was also the most likely to leave Syrena in peace if she asked.

_For how long?_ a voice in the back of his mind contested. Philip tried to brush the voice aside until a time when he would be sane enough to ponder it. As it was, he was still feeling too stunned to ponder much of anything. He couldn't begin to fathom how they would deal if her chronic aging syndrome persisted for days, or weeks.

"The stories-" Syrena interjected. She glanced up at him hopefully. "The stories did not go into much detail about this – this part, so it must not have been…very important."

Philip swallowed the lump in his throat. "Then I'm sure finding the answer will be easy," he said, with an optimism in his voice that he almost, but not entirely, felt. Syrena turned back to the window. She knew as well as he did that nothing about their situation was easy, but neither one wanted to break the fragile bubble of hope floating in their minds. As the sour taste of anxiety filled his mouth, Philip gave her hand another squeeze and prepared to go downstairs.

* * *

><p>The reverend's house sat half a mile above the sea, on a grassy hill covered in hibiscus shrubs. The path to the ocean meandered erratically down the cliff as it tried to find a way through the rocks and brambles. For the first week or so it had been difficult for Syrena to climb down and exhausting for her to climb up, but she had gotten so much stronger since then, Philip thought with a mixture of pride and dismay. He doubted she would be able to manage it as she was now. Even if the arthritis that had started in her hands didn't spread to her legs, he would still need to carry her whenever she needed to return to the sea. But that wouldn't be a burden; after all, she would be so much lighter now…<em>Oh God<em>, he thought, listening to the waves crash monotonously against the sand.

The outcrop he was sitting on was dotted with pebbles and broken seashells. He thought about skipping a few rocks to vent his frustration, but there was always the chance he would hit something. Spending time with Syrena had made him more mindful of the things that dwelled beneath the surface.

"You are lost, missionary."

Philip closed his eyes, irritated at the disturbance. His left hand clenched into a fist over the rocks. When he reopened them, another face peered at him curiously from the outcrop to his right. Her body was half-submerged in the water, and the seadrops clinging to her skin and eyelashes glistened like underwater pearls. He recognized her, the golden-haired mermaid who had sung a dozen men to their deaths in Whitecap Bay.

"Syrena told me you call yourself Tamara," he said, making a small effort to keep the edge out of his voice.

"She's spoken of me?" Tamara looked surprised, and a little pleased. She made a soft sound of disbelief before her mouth curved into a coquettish smile. "Nothing very good, I imagine."

"No, not most of it," Philip conceded. "But some."

To her credit, she did not ask him to elaborate on whatever positive qualities Syrena thought she possessed. Or perhaps she suspected Philip would not be the best messenger; he was decidedly less generous in his opinion of the Whitecap mermaids. She drummed her fingers on the rocks. "I've been watching you for the last few days. I thought something exciting might happen. It has, hasn't it?"

Philip started forward. "You knew about this?" he said sharply.

Tamara scoffed. "Of course we knew. We would have told her, if we'd known what she was doing. Did you honestly think those extra centuries were free?"

Philip bit back a curt reply. She obviously viewed him with the same contempt she felt for the rest of the human race, but he could at least be civil. "I know what she did, and so did she. She had sixteen hundred years left in her life. She gave eight hundred to me and kept the other eight hundred for herself."

"Yes, but which eight hundred did she give you?" Tamara asked politely. Philip paused. When he didn't answer, she clucked her tongue sympathetically. "Poor missionary. It seems your mermaid paramour made a mistake. She gave you the _next _eight hundred years of her life. Now she's left with the older years while you have all the younger ones."

A sharp chill gripped the inside of his chest. If what Tamara said was true, he would have to watch Syrena wither alone while he remained selfishly young and strong. He began to scour his mind for any evidence he could use to contradict her. But when he looked back on their last two months together, a disturbing picture started to materialize. Up until this morning she'd looked young enough, but it was possible she hadn't _felt _young. The stiffness she'd noticed in her hands had been going on for weeks. And the soreness she'd felt when first learning to walk…he had attributed it to the newness of her legs, and the newness of being on land. It had never entered his mind that something more sinister could be going on.

"You see it now, don't you?" Tamara said. "The price she pays to be with you."

Philip rubbed his forehead, willing himself to think rationally. "She said her body was confused. She thinks this is a passing phase, that eventually her body will settle on its proper age. Is that true?" he demanded.

"Who knows? Her body might decide she's supposed to be two thousand forever." Tamara shrugged. "It's her own fault, for acting on her own. There are less disastrous ways to give away years. Any of us would have helped her had she asked. But she always considered herself too good for us. A pity she was so arrogant."

"There must be a way to undo it. If her tear is in my blood, then my blood-"

"It doesn't work like that," she told him.

"I never wanted her to do this," Philip said emphatically. "If I don't want this new life, then let me give it back."

"It doesn't work like that," Tamara repeated, and for a fleeting moment she almost looked sorry for him. She shook her head. "Those eight hundred years are yours now, missionary, whether you want them or not."

"Suppose I die," he suggested darkly, and he was half-serious.

Tamara let out a soft exhale of derision. "Then you're even more idiotic than I thought, but it would not restore what she lost. It's your life, not hers." Philip dug the heel of his boot into the rocks. Tamara pushed off the outcrop, sending a swirl of ripples toward the shore. Her gold and turquoise tail shimmered capriciously beneath the waves. "We both know what the answer is, missionary."

The icy grip inside his chest tightened. _No_, Philip thought, before his mind had even caught up to hers. She observed him from the water, waiting for him to remember. He had a feeling she would wait all day, or a year and day, if necessary; time passed differently for her kind. But he only needed a few seconds to remember that he did have the power to solve Syrena's problem for good, and why he so badly did not want to. "Absolutely not," he said.

"Why not? It wouldn't hurt. She wouldn't even miss you," Tamara remarked nonchalantly.

"I'm not doing that to her," he said. Even considering it was enough to make him feel as though the air to his lungs had been cut off.

"Then you are selfish," she told him. "The tree in your pastor's forest would give her a thousand years to replace the old, stale ones she has now. It would only cost her a few centuries of memories. Most of them probably aren't even that pleasant." _But there are a few_, Philip thought as he watched her aquamarine scales flicker in the midmorning sun. _And pleasant or unpleasant, she would forget them all. _That had been the price Reverend Lawrence had spoken of in the forest a month earlier; to gain a life another must be sacrificed. _Angels and ashes and blood._

"It's not as though you've been the most responsible guardian," she continued, circling the corner of the narrow peninsula. "I suppose you weren't even aware that you're sharing a house with one of Blackbeard's confidants." That comment, made with the same casual disinterest usually allotted to comments on the weather, left Philip temporarily stunned. In the time it took him to recover she followed up on her advantage.

"Two months is a short time even by your standards. Would you really make her suffer eight centuries only so she can remember eight weeks with you?" She stretched her arm onto the rocks again. There was something that came close to imploring in the gesture. "My people would take care of her. Give her back to us."

"And if I did that, would she become a killer like you?" Philip asked coldly.

Her face darkened, and her expression turned to stone. "You understand nothing, missionary."

"I understand that when Blackbeard hung her out to dry above a jungle pool, your people did nothing to help her," Philip returned.

Tamara glared at him from the base of the outcrop. In that instant she looked every iota the demon queen who had spent nine centuries devouring the flesh of drowning men. Her winter-blue eyes blazed with the clarity of two frozen lakes, and Philip realized just how thoroughly she despised him. "She needed but to ask, but to ask was needed. She understood that. You understand _nothing_."

Thinking he had heard enough, he turned away and started to rise when he felt something grab hold of his ankle. For one wild half-second he thought she was going to drag him into the water, but the motion arrested itself before he could stumble. It appeared she only wanted to prevent him from leaving. "Consider, missionary," she said quietly. "Even if you don't care how she looks on the outside, the aging is in her bones. What do you suppose will happen next? Blindness? Dementia?" She loosened her grip but did not let go. Her voice lowered until it barely surpassed a soft summer wind. "If this continues, how long before she forgets you just the same?"

The next moment his ankle was free, and she was gone. Philip watched the ripples her departure had left in the water widen and disappear. Then he turned back to the hill. The coldness in his chest returned as he contemplated the steep climb to the top.

_She needed but to ask._ There had been at least a dozen shriveled mermaid corpses hanging from the trees when he had arrived with Blackbeard, Philip remembered with some disgust. He found it very hard to believe that none of them would have asked for help if help was possible. Whatever rules Tamara purported to follow, he sensed there was something she had not told him. Her ethics had boundaries. There were mermaids who were not monsters, Syrena was living proof of that, but Tamara was not one of them.

When he reached the summit, the sun had climbed well above the bird-infested canopy. It was approaching noon, and he still hadn't eaten breakfast. He was suddenly aware of how painfully dry his throat had become. As he stepped through the front door of the mission house, he was surprised to hear heated voices clamoring to his right. There was an argument emanating from the music room.

"Yes, I understand the concept," Simon protested from the far corner, in front of the cherrywood clavichord. "What I don't understand is why I'm the lady."

"Because you're shorter than Julian, because we voted on it, and because I said so," Ephraim replied. He was seated behind the clavichord with what appeared to be a sheet of Purcell's chamber music. He regarded Simon with a look of patient indulgence. "You don't have to curtsy if you don't want to."

"Yes he does. I need to see how it's done. It's very important." Philip turned to the other side of the room and there was Syrena, sitting in her usual position on the floor with her back against the cream and gold tapestry sofa. Her hair had returned to its natural dark-coffee brown. Apart from the slightly impatient crease in her eyebrows, her skin looked as smooth as it had the night before. The scene had such an air of normalcy to it, for half a moment Philip wondered if he'd dreamed the entire morning and walked into the house after a strange bout of sleepwalking.

"In that case, you'd better not curtsy. She'll never learn how watching you," Julian said dryly.

"Which brings us back to the original question of why I'm the lady," Simon returned.

"Dancing lesson?" Philip ventured as he crossed into the room. The curtains had been thrown back to let in the sunlight, and a salty breeze whisked through the open windows. Syrena turned to him. "Your headache's gone," he observed.

"Yes. I told you it was nothing to worry about." She stretched her arms in front of her and flexed her fingers. She looked tired of sitting. "Would you show me what a curtsy is?" she asked. Simon looked at him with hope. Philip realized he had been given an opportunity to do something brave, selfless and almost insensibly noble. He considered it and decided he could give it a miss.

"Can't. I had a very faulty education," he explained as he joined her on the floor. "But Simon's parents sold him to a troop of performing gypsies when he was six. I'm sure he's just holding back."

From behind the clavichord, the smallest trace of a smirk crossed Ephraim's mouth. Philip glanced briefly at Syrena's face as she observed Simon and Julian. Tamara's words continued to circle in his mind, but inside the house they sounded distant and almost irrelevant. He reminded himself that deceit was her nature, and it would be in her best interest to create a web of distrust in their home. Ephraim's fingers tripped over the keys of the clavichord while Simon appeared to be deliberately tripping over Julian. _She is wrong or she is lying_, he thought, glancing at Syrena again. _This is a phase. It will pass._


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: The exact time setting of Pirates of the Caribbean seems to be a matter of some debate. Some sources say the 1740s, but historical records put Blackbeard's death at 1718. Out of an at least vague attempt at realism, Nautilus and Netmakers are set in the year 1719, at the end of the Golden Age of Piracy in the Caribbean. Slavery was a reality in Barbados at the time, and the Anglican Church on the island was a major slaveholder. Given his previous behavior and the fact that he is not from Barbados, I do not think it would be out of character for Philip to question it, but the average white person in the Caribbean would not._

* * *

><p>Syrena rubbed her temples, bleary-eyed from reading the same three paragraphs for the last half hour. She recognized her own lopsided handwriting and vaguely remembered writing the words that morning, but she couldn't call back whatever thoughts had inspired them. Now, staring at the repeatedly wrinkled parchment in front of her elbows, they made about as much sense as an opium dream.<p>

_We stopped for coffee at a small café in Trafalgar Square this afternoon. We had to drink it black and bitter because sugar is so scarce. If the rationing lasts much longer, I might actually begin to enjoy it that way. As we searched for a table, a few doctors from St. Bartholomew's recognized Philip and joined us outside. He claims he has little knowledge of medicine, but they say all the patients are reassured by his presence. And, I think, the doctors are too._

_While we were talking, a low drone cut through the air overhead. For a few minutes all of us thought it was the Luftwaffe. Philip reached for my hand. An older man sitting nearby started asking if the café had a shelter. Several customers rose from their tables, and the nervous shuffling almost turned into a mad rush for the door, but one of the doctors at our table recognized the plane as a British Hawker. The relief was palpable but only temporary. Every night we lie awake listening for sounds of fire and thunder, praying the Luftwaffe will not come, and if it doesn't we like awake still, waiting…_

_If England falls we will have to move to Cornwall. The journey to the sea is already becoming difficult. Though in all honesty it feels like only a matter of time. Now that France has been swallowed by the Third Reich, the entire continent is under shadow. We are facing this beast completely alone._

By that point Syrena had given up trying to figure out what a Luftwaffe was and where Trafalgar Square was located. England, at the moment, did not seem very specific. She turned her mind to wondering when the events in the letter had happened, and if there was any way she could prevent them from going somewhere so obviously dangerous. But she knew it was no use, she was young again now, and her mind was young as well.

This was partly a relief. The sight of her older self still frightened her. When she looked in the mirror she saw a child's eyes, ghostlike, staring out of a small, weathered frame with wisps of hair like gossamer. It was that contrast between child and crone she found the most disconcerting. Older people were supposed to be wise. She felt foolish, gaping at her reflection with such raw astonishment. And sometimes she found herself remembering with brilliant clarity events that could not have happened, could never have happened, or - she was starting to suspect - had not happened yet.

That aside, it was not an entirely unbeautiful reflection. _Elfin _or _fey_, Philip had called it, and there was a warmth in his voice when he said it. Syrena pursed her lips together and shoved the memory aside. She did not want to think about Philip right now; she was feeling rather angry at him.

Syrena ran her fingers over her eyes again, reconciled to not knowing whatever she had known in the morning. This disorientation was very close to becoming a daily routine. Waking up at dawn in a strange body with strange recollections, feeling as though she had been pulled out of time, she would wonder for several minutes why she was still in Barbados. Then, as the sun rose higher, the wrinkles and recollections would begin to fade and she would go back to being Syrena the younger. She considered herself lucky the episodes usually didn't last past midmorning and the reverend's household broke their fast late. They were an informal brood; when people chose to get out of bed was generally their own business. _I really should try remembering dates_, she thought, returning her eyes to the paper. This was the sixth nonsensical vision she had jotted down, and she had no idea if they were even in chronological order.

A knock on the front door jolted her out of drowsiness. Syrena sat upright. She had thought she had the library to herself, but there was no telling how the intrusion of a visitor would change that. She heard the click of the door as Reverend Lawrence opened it. Feeling desperate, she hurriedly folded all six incriminating sheets of parchment in half and stuffed them inside the most boring-looking book she could find, a paperbound treatise entitled _Discourse on Method_. Taking a breath to steady herself, she replaced the book on the shelf and walked out of the library.

When she reached the foyer, Reverend Lawrence, Simon and Philip were standing at the door with their backs to her, making polite conversation with someone she couldn't see. She lingered awkwardly by the stairwell, unsure if she should insert herself into the conversation. A careless creak in the floorboard broke the stalemate. Reverend Lawrence turned. "Well, consider her found," he said amiably. Syrena furrowed her eyebrows suspiciously; she had not expected anyone to come to the house looking for her. The reverend stepped aside. "If that's all you need, I'll be in my study." Syrena took another step towards the door. Through the gap created by the reverend's departure, she recognized the figure of Silas Ramsay's younger daughter.

"You're Elinor," Syrena said, not realizing until too late how abrupt the statement sounded.

Elinor's grey eyes brightened with surprise. "You remember my name."

Syrena shook her head. "Philip told me after the service. We were never properly introduced."

"Of course." The younger girl shuffled her feet uneasily. It was obvious she hadn't forgotten the thinly veiled insults her family had treated Syrena to during their first meeting, though to be fair none had come from her. Syrena used the uncomfortable silence to study her more closely. Elinor Ramsay looked to be about fourteen or fifteen years old, still navigating the treacherous terrain between child and woman. Her dull brown hair matched the thin dusting of freckles on her nose. She was nowhere near as pretty as her older sister, and Syrena suspected she was used to hearing that. Still, her subdued white and china-blue dress flattered her more than the lemon-colored frills Syrena had seen her wearing at their first meeting. She looked a bit taller now that she wasn't standing in her sister's shadow.

"I wanted to talk to you. It seemed only fair…" Elinor's voice trailed off. She raised her eyes to meet Syrena's gaze directly. There was a strange, almost pleading, intensity in them.

"Won't you come inside?" Philip interceded. He gestured towards the library. Elinor nodded mutely. Sensing as she did that this was not likely to be a short conversation, Philip ushered the four of them into a room less intimidating than the main foyer. As they crossed through the doorway, Elinor paused. She seemed a little awed at the number of books on the shelves. For a moment it looked like she wanted to spend hours poring over their titles before she remembered that was not the purpose of her visit. Seating herself on one of the plush green chairs by the fireplace, Elinor folded her hands over her skirt and swallowed.

"It seemed only fair to talk to you in person," she began again. "Because other people are talking about you. And it's not right for them to say things like that when – when you aren't there to defend yourself."

"What are they saying?" Philip asked, eyes narrowing. Elinor shifted in her chair.

"They're wondering why you haven't come to church for the last two weeks," she said. "And they're wondering why they never see you outside the mission house except-"

"Except?" Philip prompted her gently.

"Except, a few of the women say they've seen the two of you walking down the cliffs together, toward the sea." Her eyes flicked between Syrena and Philip. "Sometimes at dawn, and once or twice at night."

Out of the corner of her eye, Syrena saw Philip stiffen beside her. She moved swiftly to respond before the other girl noticed the change in his posture. "I am sorry to have missed church," she said, trying very hard to sound as though she meant it. "I've been experiencing a bit of morning sickness the last couple weeks."

Elinor's eyes widened. Her mouth parted into a small _o_. Syrena was wondering what to make of her odd reaction when Philip quickly cut in, "Not that kind. It's headaches. Because of the climate and the cooking and the…organ music." His mouth formed a small grimace, and Syrena had a feeling he was wishing he could take back the last explanation. His expression relaxed as he leaned forward towards Elinor. "Most people probably don't know, but Syrena wasn't born in the Caribbean."

"Oh," Elinor replied, looking down. Her face flushed scarlet. She glanced up again, anxiety back in her eyes, and added hurriedly, "I wouldn't tell anyone. My sister would, she enjoys spreading rumors, but I swear, I would keep your secret. Gossiping is wrong, and Charlotte-"

"Elinor, did Charlotte send you?" Simon interrupted. His tone wasn't unkind, but the question itself came across as enough of an accusation. For a few seconds, Elinor Ramsay looked as though she was about to cry. She sank back into her chair, tight-lipped, while her cheeks burned an even deeper shade of rose. Philip shot Simon a glare. After a long pause, she shook her head.

"I walked here. I didn't tell anyone where I was going," she said quietly. Simon leaned back in his chair, chastised.

"You said something about Syrena defending herself," Philip said, diverting the subject away from Simon's question. "What's the worst people are saying?"

Elinor rotated her hands in her lap. "Well, most of them still think you're from Tortuga, or somewhere similar," she admitted, looking apologetically at Syrena. "But a few of them have started suggesting that you're some kind of witch."

There was a silence. For several minutes, or possibly one very long minute, the only audible sounds were the finches trilling outside the window and the muffled clank of the breakfast china being washed in the kitchen. "Hear that, Philip?" said Simon dryly. "It appears while you were away, some eyeball-collecting sorceress in the jungle ensnared your soul and is now using you to lead the righteous to eternal damnation."

"Yes, that's exactly what they think," Elinor replied.

"Then there's no time to lose," Simon said. He rose from his chair and straightened. "Elinor, I need you to find Julian. We'll have to confine Philip to his quarters for the time being, and I'm guessing it will take at least two of us to overpower him. While we're tying him down, you and Ephraim will comb through the library looking for any and all books on exorcism."

"That's for demons, you moron," Philip reminded him.

Simon nodded solemnly. "You're right. It's the _Malleus Maleficarum_ we want. Pity, that might be the one book our good reverend has refused to put in his library."

"You could always try Malory. There have to be some witches in _Le Morte D'Arthur_…"

"Then there's the issue of confession. Don't suppose you picked up any tips from the Spaniards, did you?"

"This isn't funny!" Elinor interrupted plaintively. "It isn't funny at _all_. They hang witches in Massachusetts, and they'll lock you in prison for days and if you don't confess they'll torture you until you do, and once you say what they want they'll kill you just-"

"Elinor," Philip said patiently, "Elinor, please calm down. The last witch trials in the British colonies ended almost thirty years ago. We're not that backwards anymore. This is a civilized port, where the Royal Navy upholds the law according to strict rules. We don't execute innocent people over gossip and superstition." He stretched out his arm in a gesture of reassurance. For a flickering second something in his eyes betrayed he didn't have quite as much faith in society as he claimed, or perhaps his ideas about _superstition_ had changed. In either case Syrena did not think Simon or Elinor noticed it. "That's not to say we aren't grateful for the warning," he added with sincerity.

"Actually, I didn't come just to warn you," Elinor said. She shifted awkwardly in her chair once more, and the color returned to her cheeks. "I came to ask if you would like to come with me for a walk on Broad Street. Not that I'm imposing," she amended hastily. "I only thought that, there will be so many respectable people there, and if they saw you in public they might stop saying those things."

Philip frowned, cautious again. "I'm not sure that's such-"

"We'd love to," Syrena answered quickly. She glanced at Philip, feeling a pang of guilt for interrupting him that was quickly replaced by a flare of defiance. With the exception of their clandestine trips to the sea every two days, she had not ventured out of doors in weeks. Granted, it had been just as much her choice as his, but the walls had become so confining. He had no right to decide what was best in matters that concerned them both. From his chair next to the door Philip was still frowning. He looked as though this was against his better judgment. However, they both knew there was no tactful way for him to back out. Relieved, Syrena stood and turned to Elinor. "If it would not be too much trouble, perhaps you might show me how you and your sister arrange your hair."

* * *

><p>Navigating through the street hawkers and unevenly tanned sailors cluttering the boardwalk, Philip had to move quickly to keep Syrena and Elinor in his line of sight. The fact that it was the middle of December hadn't stopped half the workers on the marina from stripping down to their waists. There was no winter in Barbados, only a rainy season and a less rainy season. There also wasn't any wind this afternoon. After several minutes in the blistering heat, Philip was tempted to mimic them and peel off his shirt and waistcoat as well. He had to remind himself that the boardwalk was only a detour, and they would be crossing into more respectable territory soon. He also doubted Syrena would notice if he did. She hadn't really looked at him since they had left the house, and while he couldn't fathom why, there was a rigidity in her shoulders that warned him against asking. The two girls were walking several paces ahead of them now, engrossed by their surroundings and whatever mystifying things girls talked about when they were alone. Beside him Simon observed them with exasperation.<p>

"They're giggling. I don't understand it. They're giggling."

"They're girls. Unless you're worried they're giggling about you," Philip replied. It was a poorly timed remark, as at just that moment Syrena and Elinor's high-pitched laughter escalated several decibels. Philip remembered it was very likely Syrena had heard them, though neither girl looked back in their direction. Simon groaned quietly.

"You really had to tell Elinor the Royal Navy doesn't burn witches?" he said under his breath.

"Not everyone has your sense of humor," Philip told him. "She's a trusting girl. If she listened to you, she'd probably have nightmares for a month."

"Would not," Simon muttered. "I'm a decent man. A fortnight, tops."

They were coming to the end of the boardwalk. A pair of heavily built dock laborers balancing large sacks of sugar shouldered past them toward the pier. Farther away, a spectacled man struggling with a birdcage half as tall as him collided with Elinor. The bird inside, a two-foot scarlet ibis who didn't look at all happy about being caught, squawked indignantly as the cage tumbled to the ground. "Watch yourself, love. Priceless extinct Ethiopian phoenix, that is," he said curtly.

"Here, let me help you," Syrena offered. As the offended ibis ruffled its feathers and jabbed its neck out of the bars, Syrena helped the merchant turn the cage upright. With a bit of effort, more because of the awkwardness of Syrena's skirts than the weight of the cage, he succeeded in wrapping his arms around it again and made his way staggering up the boardwalk. Philip noticed as he passed that the cage door was facing away from the merchant and rattling precariously.

"You threw the lock, didn't you?" he said in a low voice, once they were out of earshot.

Syrena shrugged, unconcerned. The animal's fate didn't seem to interest her anymore. "If the bird is intelligent, he can escape on his own."

"The bird's not the only one in danger. That merchant could do with a bit of saving," Philip pointed out dryly.

Simon rolled his eyes. "He could do with a vocabulary lesson."

"It's lucky for him my father isn't here," Elinor murmured. "He abhors dishonesty in business. I've heard him lash out at his trading partners for less."

"What business is your father in?" Syrena asked curiously.

"Sugar cane," Elinor replied. "He owns the third largest plantation on Barbados, and more Negroes than anyone this close to the capital." Though Elinor was by far the most unassuming person in her family, there was a hint of pride in her voice. Philip remembered that was another reason he'd had a hard time getting along with the Ramsays. To call slavery a morally awkward institution was generous. He'd heard several attempts to rationalize it since his arrival in Barbados, none of which justified cramming hundreds of people into cargo hulls, starving them for months and then subjecting them to a lifetime of backbreaking labor. But whatever justifications its apologists offered – civilization, Christianization, or pure, unadulterated avarice - he could not understand how people managed to feel _proud_ of it.

"Tell me more about Broad Street," Syrena said, noticing the expression on his face and changing the subject.

"It's where most of the gentry in Bridgetown run their errands," Elinor explained. She looked pleased to be able to share a bit of worldly knowledge. "They have dress stores and hat shops and a patisserie that sells chocolate and French pastries. And there's a bookshop, right next to the tea store, only…only Charlotte never wants to go there, and Father says novels make people silly."

By now they had left the boardwalk behind and were crossing into more genteel territory. The fish vendors and sugar carts were quickly giving way to window shops and horse-drawn phaetons. Philip hadn't visited Broad Street very often, having little reason to come there during his short term with Reverend Anton, but it was impossible to miss the societal shift. It was more than the merchandise, he thought. The merchants of Broad Street were a more well-dressed, subdued lot, less inclined to shout to attract customers. In return the shoppers held equally high standards, quick to criticize and slow to impress.

"Look!" Elinor cried, interrupting his train of thought. "There's going to be a hanging tomorrow." She had paused outside the door of the coffee house. She was clutching Syrena's hand, though probably less for support than to prevent Syrena from carelessly entering; unlike most shops in Barbados, the interiors of coffee shops were not the province of women. Philip and Simon strode forward until they were level with them. A pamphlet nailed to the door announced the date and time of the trial of one Matthew Jarvis in bold, black letters. "It looks like the trial hasn't taken place yet," Philip observed. "How do you know it will end in a hanging?"

Elinor looked at him strangely. "He's on trial for piracy, and Judge Weston is hearing the case," she said. "Judge Weston never acquits anyone accused of being a pirate. Everyone knows that."

Simon looked askance at Philip, frowning. "He's been here fifteen years. Reverend Lawrence has counseled a lot of the people he found guilty, before they went to the gallows," he said. He scuffed the heel of his shoe against the dirt road. "Most of them probably were."

Elinor shuddered. Simon took hold of her elbow and pulled her away from the door. "Come on. The bookshop looks almost empty. We can find something to scandalize your father."

As Simon escorted Elinor down the street, Philip noticed the rigidity return to Syrena's posture. It puzzled him. They hadn't had an argument, and as far as he knew they had been on perfectly agreeable terms when they'd last spoken, but for some reason being alone with him was suddenly making her uneasy. He considered a tactful approach and dismissed it. He had learned some time ago that tact was seldom the best course with her.

"Suppose you tell me why my company is so distasteful to you today." Her frown deepened. She looked irritated to have been caught in an act that was otherwise incredibly obvious. After a few seconds of simmering stalemate, she turned to face him.

"You didn't come to my room this morning," she said abruptly. Her voice was hard, but in her eyes Philip recognized the look of the righteously injured.

"That is because you did not answer when I knocked on your door yesterday," he said. It was the truth, though he was careful not to make the statement sound like an accusation. "I assumed you wanted to be alone."

"I did want to be alone. But I was happy you _knocked_." A knot of anxiety twisted over her eyebrows. The double standard in that statement obviously didn't bother her nearly as much as his perceived abandonment.

As they walked past the tea store, Philip tried very hard to conceal his relief. Her crossness over his absence _was _a relief. Up until yesterday, the last week and a half had been surprisingly good for their relationship. He had a reason to visit her room every morning, even if it was a reason he couldn't tell anyone else. And as confusing and frightening as it was to watch Syrena transform in front of him, it felt wonderful to be alone with her for an hour or two. He'd enjoyed sitting next to her by the upstairs window, talking about the beginning of the world, or the end of the world or – more often – nothing at all.

"Was there a reason you wanted to be by yourself?" he asked. Syrena reached for his hand and locked her fingers between his, which was usually a sign that she was about to say something she did not think he would like.

"Yes. I wanted to pretend a little longer," she said. She swept her free hand over the side of her face. It was a brief motion, a brush of lace on curl, but there was a note of embarrassment in it, as though she had just confessed a weakness of character. As they turned the corner, he noticed a pair of street musicians unpacking their violins outside the fabric shop. They waved at Philip, and he offered them a friendly nod.

"There's no adjustment period, is there?" he said carefully. Syrena shook her head. Philip kept his eyes on the street, attempting to make the conversation look as normal as possible. "And you thought I would simply abandon you, or cast you off, once I found out what you're going through wasn't just a phase," he concluded.

"No! That is, I didn't think you were that bad." Her face flushed. She seemed to realize what she had said was not in the strictest sense a compliment. Philip almost let out a soft snort of bemusement, but she looked so distressed he didn't want to risk making her feel mocked.

"You're an idiot," he told her. "Even supposing I was that much of a scoundrel, which I'm not, you might remember the visions you've woken up with in the morning had me in them."

"Some," she corrected. "Some of them do, and some of them don't. I didn't know what to think."

"I think you're wearing yourself out trying to make sense of them," he said. "If it really is the future you're remembering, then it's always changing. We can't know anything for certain."

"I know you can't help me," she said quietly. Her shoulders were tense, and her mouth was curved in a soft but determined frown. She had obviously been thinking about this for some time. He couldn't help but wonder if this was the part where she cast him off before he cast her off.

"Don't," he said, before she could continue. "Don't go there. I'm not going to argue debts with you, I really thought we were beyond that sort of-"

"You're not listening, Philip," she said patiently. Fixing him with an impressively professorial stare, she repeated herself, more slowly. "You cannot help me."

"If you honestly think I'm the sort of person who-" And then something fell into place. "Right," he said in a lower voice, feeling a bit idiotic. "Who, then?"

This time it was Syrena's turn to look flustered. "I hadn't gotten that far yet," she admitted. "But what we have now…It's not working, Philip. You know it's not. We need to end this."

Philip let out a slow breath. "It's not perfect," he conceded. "I don't like this secrecy anymore than you do, but, Syrena, I can't guarantee what's going to happen if we just throw it off. You do realize most humans have an easier time believing in witches than mermaids?"

"I'm not suggesting we tell everyone," Syrena returned. "But you have people whom you depend on. If you don't trust them, why did you come here at all?"

She slipped her arm out of his and let it drop. Philip rubbed the side of his neck while pondering how to reply. "As long as you're just a lost girl rescued from pirates, they'll talk about you, but it will never go beyond words. If you try convincing them you're a mythical sea creature, things could actually get dangerous."

"You just told Elinor that the British don't hang people over gossip and superstition," she pointed out.

"They wouldn't hang you," Philip replied. "But they would try locking you in an asylum, and you'd probably die of dehydration before I could get you out."

"And what is an asylum?" she asked, crossing her arms and regarding him with a cool glare. It clearly displeased her to hear a word she didn't understand, and she did not like having to concede territory by asking for a definition.

"A place where they chain insane people to walls because they can't think of anything better to do with them," he told her flatly.

Syrena wrapped her arms more tightly around her waist. Somewhere between the confession and the dispute, they had stopped walking. Across the street the two violinists had finished setting up and were playing a spirited folk song. They were not singing, which was fortunate, as Philip thought the song vaguely reminiscent of a bawdier song the sailors on the _Morning Mercy _used to sing when they were feeling particularly drunk. A few passersby had paused near the corner, listening politely in clusters of taffeta and satin. Syrena continued to stare ahead with her elbows cradled in her hands. "There has to be someone we can rely on. I don't understand what…" She closed her eyes. "I don't understand, Philip."

She shivered, and for an instant Philip forgot the sun and the sand and the shirtless workers on the marina and remembered that it was December. A breeze that somehow managed to make it past the boardwalk shook the imitation pearls on her ears. _How is it after all this, you are the one who trusts them more?_ he wondered. "Reverend Lawrence," he said finally. "We can tell Reverend Lawrence. I don't know if he can help us, but he's as trustworthy as anyone else. More than most."

Her shoulders relaxed. For a moment he considered sliding close to her again and slipping his arm around her waist. She looked so small, almost drowning in the layers of ivory and amber brocade cascading down her back. He noticed the tiny crowd outside the fabric shop was beginning to lose interest in the music. Then, since this was to be the end of something and he had no idea what their lives would look like this time tomorrow, and because the entire reason for going out in the first place was to make some kind of spectacle, he turned to her and held out his hand.

"Would you dance with me?"


	8. Chapter 8

"Reverend, I need to speak with you."

Without glancing up from his writing desk, Reverend Lawrence motioned him in with two brusque flicks of his middle and index fingers. Philip entered with caution. He had to tread carefully to avoid stepping on the stray sheets of paper littering the floor. Reverend Lawrence's office was just as much a mess tonight as it had been the night he'd entered with Syrena, the night the reverend had asked him about his intentions toward her. _Was it really only six weeks ago? _An empty armchair sat disregarded in a corner a few feet from the desk. He considered sitting down, but the prospect of sitting still seemed so impossible that he opted to stand behind it instead. He folded his hands over the back of the chair and tried to clear his head. The reverend's quill continued to scratch noisily while Philip waited.

"Did the younger Miss Ramsay arrive home safely?" he asked when he at last pushed the parchment aside. Though he was sitting and Philip was standing, Philip couldn't help feeling unsettled. There was an intensity in the reverend's posture that was in no way diminished by his small stature. If anything, being trapped in such a diminutive body multiplied it. He had never given it much thought before, but he'd never had a reason to.

"Simon's escorting her. He should be back soon," Philip replied.

"Good. What can I do for you, Philip?"

"I need to speak with you about Syrena," he began.

Reverend Lawrence leaned back in his chair. "It comes at last," he said. He set down the quill and smiled sadly. "Tell me, Philip, just how long did you plan to continue lying to us?"

Philip blinked. The reverend regarded him with an amused, slightly pitying expression. He didn't answer immediately. He was ashamed to admit that the answer was, in its most honest form, _As long as I thought we could get away with it. _"What gave us up, sir?" he asked, since it seemed like the only reasonable thing to ask.

Reverend Lawrence chuckled. "It turns out I know something of the profane ritual required by the Fountain of Youth. You made no mention of a mermaid in your story. It was not hard to guess the reason."

Philip looked down. If that really was how the reverend had found them out, and he had no reason to think otherwise, then he had known the truth about Syrena almost since they'd set foot in the house. It was not a pleasant revelation. "Let's set aside for the moment the question of why you chose not to trust us," Reverend Lawrence suggested. "The more interesting question is why you've suddenly decided to trust us now. I can only assume it's because some recent development has led you to believe you have no choice."

There was no accusation in the reverend's eyes or his tone, but Philip felt the urge to apologize nonetheless. _You opened your home to us, and in return we offer you the truth only as a last resort. _Swallowing, he drummed his fingers over the hardback chair. It was a bit late for remorse now.

"I don't really understand it myself," he admitted. "Neither does she. Her body seems to be aging erratically. Some mornings she's as young as she's always been, and some mornings she'll wake up…older than you, sir."

"I was under the impression she wakes up every morning older than me," Reverend Lawrence remarked dryly. "It's all right, I understand what you meant. How long has this been going on?"

Philip considered his answer. "On the outside, a couple weeks. But it's been hurting her for at least a month before that."

"And it happens only in the morning? No? How long does it last?" Philip nodded, shook his head or spoke as the reverend's questions required. "And you're basing this only on what she has told you?"

"No. I've been with her in her room. Talking," he added, surprised that even in a conversation like this he still felt the need to maintain a sense of honor. Reverend Lawrence chuckled again. Looking back, Philip realized how mediocre their attempts to hide must have looked to the reverend. How easy things had been for them over the last month and a half, how many of Syrena's eccentricities had gone unquestioned, could only be due to his patient indulgence. He would be completely justified in taking offense that they had thought him so easily deceived.

"I told you the first night you came here that you might need to let her go one day," the reverend said after a long pause. "It's possible that day has arrived."

Philip started from behind the chair. "You're turning her out?"

"Of course not! But Philip, my knowledge of merfolk is limited and, to be honest, I don't know if I can be of any help at all. She would have a greater chance of finding answers among her own kind." _Her own kind are dead, and the ones who are left are nothing like her,_ Philip thought. Reverend Lawrence removed his spectacles and rubbed the corners of his eyes.

"You expected this," Philip said. "You expected this to fail."

The reverend's eyes wandered briefly toward the ceiling before returning to his glasses. "It was not my wish to see either of you hurt," he said. "However, I must admit, I still had not decided if I would agree to marry you if it came to that."

"Because we could not have children, or because her people are rumored to be monsters?" Philip demanded.

"Neither. It was simply that I was not convinced her affections were as deep as yours," Reverend Lawrence replied.

Philip's grip on the chair tightened. "So you think she is incapable of love," he said.

"Incapable of loving you the way you seem to love her," the reverend returned. "Think of the inequality in it, Philip. Nowadays a man can live seven decades. Eight, if he is very lucky. Mermaids live for millennia. You must see that a lifetime commitment for you would be a fleeting summer romance for her."

Philip closed his eyes. He had known, somehow, that the interview would come to this. "I don't have decades anymore, Reverend. I have centuries." Reverend Lawrence frowned. Philip glanced to the side at the space behind the reverend's shoulder and explained. The words felt heavy on his tongue. "I was dying, and that was the price of my life. She cut her lifespan in half. She will live eight hundred years more, and so will I."

The reverend half-rose from the desk. He had to clutch the arm of the chair to steady himself. For a moment he looked as though he wanted to reach out and touch Philip, and then he seemed almost afraid to. "My dear boy," he said softly. "My poor, enchanted boy. I'm so sorry."

Philip let out a silent breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He didn't feel that admitting the full truth had made their lives any better, but there was a certain relief in having the most difficult part of the conversation over. Still looking a little shaken, Reverend Lawrence pushed his chair behind him and walked around the desk. He kept his right hand against the surface for support. Philip suppressed the reflex to move forward and help him; he did not think the older man would welcome any sudden moves on his part just now.

"We have a theory," he began again. "We think perhaps there was a mistake. That perhaps she gave her younger years to me and kept the older ones for herself."

Reverend Lawrence regarded Philip shrewdly. "Is this a theory you developed on your own, or one you heard somewhere else?"

"Somewhere else," Philip admitted.

"And you trust the source?" Reverend Lawrence asked. Philip mulled over the question and how it overlapped with his memories of Tamara. She had given him no reason to trust her. From their first meeting she had made it clear that she thought Syrena and the world in general would have been better off if someone had the decency to eat him the night he arrived at Whitecap – but then again, she had never lied to him either. At least, never in words.

"Not really," he answered.

"Good. Because your source is probably wrong." The flat certainty in the reverend's tone surprised Philip.

"I thought you knew little of merfolk, sir," he said. "How can you be sure that…"

"Logic, dear boy, logic! Suppose you're right, and her body is eight hundred years older _now_ than it was three months ago. It would be a strange magic indeed that would make her shift from a young woman to an old one and back in a matter of hours. She shouldn't look like a young woman at all if your theory is correct. Good heavens, I thought you were intelligent."

"Then what do you think is happening?"

"Haven't a clue. But there is some value in knowing what is _not_ happening." Reverend Lawrence gave his glasses one final dusting on his neck kerchief and reinserted them above his nose. His expression turned suddenly grave. "Does it frighten you, Philip?"

"It…" Philip rolled his fingers along the inside of his palm. _Less and less. The longer I am around her, the more I realize how little about her has changed. And I did not want to tell you because I was afraid you would tell me I need to give her up._ "It's like breathing," he said honestly. "There are minutes we'll be talking in her room and I'll almost forget about it, and then her hands will start shaking and it's difficult to think about anything else."

Reverend Lawrence looked very thoughtful. He leaned backwards against the desk with his index fingers pressed together in a pensive triangle. Philip wondered if he was remembering his wife and what it had been like for her during the last years of her life.

"Sir?" he said abruptly. Reverend Lawrence glanced back at him. Philip hadn't intended to ask this question when he'd walked into the room, and he wasn't sure if there was a tactful way to do so. But now that he had been completely honest, it didn't seem unreasonable to expect the same of the reverend. "Our source said something else. She told us someone in this house was once a friend of Blackbeard."

"No one under my roof would torture an innocent, Philip," Reverend Lawrence said sharply.

"That wasn't what I meant. I was wondering…" He dug his fingers into his palm again. "The day after I came here, you told me the night Blackbeard interrogated Reverend Anton, one of his crew found his way into the forest of angels. I was wondering what happened to that person."

A look of ironic surprise passed over the reverend's face. "Well, I'm sure you can imagine losing one's memories is a very disorienting experience. He was fortunate that Reverend Anton found him before Blackbeard did."

"And Reverend Anton brought him to you." Reverend Lawrence nodded. Philip let his eyes roam over the bookshelves dispassionately; that was the answer he had expected. "Who is it?"

Reverend Lawrence looked at him strangely. "Philip, if you can't guess, I'm certainly not going to tell you." Rising brusquely, the reverend clapped a hand on his back and guided him towards the door – a distinctly odd feeling, Philip thought, considering the older man did not even come up to his shoulder. "I believe your charming mermaid has more important questions to answer at the moment. Shall we?"

With another gentle shove, the reverend pushed him out the door, where they could hear a distinct clamoring of voices emanating from the library.

* * *

><p>Syrena was not in the library; neither was she in her bedroom, where the window was thrown open and her sheets and pillows were still piled in a rumpled nest on the floor. Philip did not explain her peculiar sleeping patterns and Reverend Lawrence did not ask him to. He knew why she chose to sleep close to the window. He also knew that she wouldn't have to if he were to let her fall asleep next to him every night, as they had done while they were on their own. It was a dilemma he wrestled with in his own room when the rest of the house was sleeping. He could sense his self-control around her was starting to erode. The more time he spent alone with her, the more he placed himself in danger of crossing a line that shouldn't be crossed. At the same time, he didn't think his moral misgivings were good enough reason for Syrena to get pneumonia.<p>

They found her in the kitchen, a fact which seemed to puzzle her almost as much as it puzzled him. The stovetop and the two feet of floor closest to the oven were covered in flour, as were the lower halves of her arms and several strands of her dark hair. A few white smears streaked across her nose and eyebrows. There was a low fire burning in the oven, but judging by the sticky, misshapen lumps of dough sitting on the cutting board, she hadn't gotten far enough to use it.

"It needs to rise for a few hours first," Reverend Lawrence told her gently.

"Oh," she said. She glanced at the reverend and then at Philip. He nodded. She turned back to the reverend. "I suppose you would like an explanation." She ran her hands over her apron, and Philip wasn't sure if she was referring to her identity or the kitchen. Her eyes began to water and she crinkled her nose. Just as she raised the back of her hand, a high-pitched sneeze escaped. She rubbed her nostrils with her wrist, looking more bothered by the inconvenience of the sneeze than embarrassed. "Might we go somewhere else? The air is not very polite here."

"I apologize for that, but it is more private," said Reverend Lawrence. "I'll try not to keep you long. You may open a window, if you like."

With an agreeable sniff, Syrena moved toward the window adjacent to the oven. Philip intercepted her. As they passed he discreetly slipped her his handkerchief, but either she didn't know what it was for or she thought using it to wipe her nose amounted to sacrilege, because she kept it folded squarely in her fingers. While he unfastened the sash, she hoisted herself onto a sugar barrel in the corner. One of her legs swung over the other, making inelegant circles in the air. Philip couldn't help reflecting how absurd it was to have this discussion here, in the kitchen, where Syrena looked about as unlike a graceful sea nymph as it was possible to look.

"How old are you, child?" Reverend Lawrence asked.

"Older than your religion," Syrena replied. "England belonged to the _católicos_, and you would have a hard time understanding the language in your country when I was born."

"And how long ago was that?"

"I'm not sure exactly." She contemplated her ankles as they crossed back and forth. Like him, she looked relieved to finally end their dismal charade. "I would like you to know, the things we told you were not all lies. I am the last living member of my school, and I had been in Whitecap Bay ten years when I met Philip."

"Thank you," the reverend said quietly. "And I would like you to know it is not my intent to pry." He paused and considered that statement. "No, I suppose it is. I'm about to ask you a long series of personal questions, starting with where you were born and why you left. It's possible you'll feel an intense dislike for me afterward - that's assuming you do not feel an intense dislike for me already. I will not, however, repeat this outside the house without your consent."

Reverend Lawrence paused and observed Syrena from behind his rectangular spectacles. It was almost as though he was negotiating with her for her life story and waiting to see if she found his terms acceptable. Syrena set the handkerchief on the barrel and wiped her hands on her apron again. "I was born in Mallorca," she told him. "I was very young when I left – eighty or ninety, I think. My mother's grandfather had not told me my entire name. We do most of our growing in our first hundred years," she explained, in case the reverend found her description confusing.

"You did not say _we_ left," Reverend Lawrence noted. "You were on your own?"

"Yes," she replied briskly. "The Spanish monks do not like creatures that live longer than they do."

The reverend folded his fingers together but did not press that question any further. Philip was relieved; though it did not show in her face, he sensed Syrena was not eager to revisit that episode in her history. "And how do merfolk normally age?" Reverend Lawrence inquired.

Syrena furrowed her eyebrows. "We don't, really. Not like you, at least. There is a limit to how long we can live. The oldest was Cedric the Jaded, who lived to be three thousand one hundred twelve. He was one of only four merlings to have black scales. Most merfolk only live a couple centuries or so above two thousand."

"Why is it strange to have black scales?" Philip cut in. It seemed like a tangent, but he was curious. Syrena shifted her position on the sugar barrel to face him directly.

"Our scales mark how old we are," she said patiently. "All merlings are born with white scales. During our first century they turn coral. Once we finish maturing, they turn gold and then green and blue and violet." Philip felt a prickling on the back of his neck. There was something very important in what she had said, something that eluded him. Syrena looked at him oddly. The thought was slipping away. Letting his shoulders relax, he allowed the thought to pass. He would sleep on it and wait for it to come back. It wasn't as though they had no _time_.

"If your bodies don't age like ours, then how do you die?" Reverend Lawrence asked. It was a fair question, Philip reflected. If all that changed was the color of their scales, there was no reason for them not to live five thousand or ten thousand years, or forever.

"The sea is a dangerous place, Reverend," Syrena said with a dry smile. "Our bodies are just as fragile as yours. Darker scales are also heavier, and they are not as good at fighting disease."

Reverend Lawrence grunted thoughtfully. Philip wondered if the thought he'd misplaced had somehow found its way into the reverend's mind. He didn't have a chance to ask. The reverend crossed his fingers with a frown. "I've heard some very interesting stories about the mermaids at Whitecap. Not much to your species' credit, I'm afraid. I would be curious to learn how you fell in with them."

Syrena fingered a few grains of sugar that had seeped through the lid. This was the awkward question, the one that would determine whether she was a woman or a monster in the reverend's eyes.

"I was not forced to go there, if that is what you want to hear. Tamara was kind to me." The reverend did not elaborate on what he wanted to hear, but his face became very stern. Syrena raised her chin. She seemed determined to remind him that he was in no position to judge her, a creature more than four centuries his senior. Her fingers gripped the side of the barrel. When she spoke again her shoulders shook, but her voice was even. "You could not understand. You are too young. It is not easy, to be alone for hundreds of years. When you find someone even a bit like you, you do not ask _why_ they do what they do."

A fraction of the gravity in Reverend Lawrence's face subsided. "It was not supposed to be forever," she added quietly. "I only planned to stay until the next Congress."

"Congress?" Philip glanced at the reverend, but the term obviously meant no more to him than it did to Philip. Syrena swung her legs out in front of her and explained.

"Merfolk do not naturally live in large groups. We are too aggressive, too…territorial. Entire schools have been destroyed because they grew too numerous and fighting broke out over food or space. So most of us travel in groups of twenty or thirty. Except-" She gasped sharply and sneezed again. This time she remembered what the handkerchief was for. "Except once every five hundred years, thousands of us gather for the Congress of Mer. The Congress is a time for distant relatives to reunite and to learn what is going on in the rest of the ocean. But mostly it is a time for courtship. After the year is over, if a merman wishes to stay with his lover, he leaves with her school. We can't live in such a large group any longer than that. We would tear each other apart."

Syrena scrunched his handkerchief over her lap. "I was born shortly after the twenty-fourth Congress. I do not know if there will be a twenty-fifth."

They were silent for a minute while she rolled the handkerchief between her hands. "Please forgive my ignorance," Reverend Lawrence said finally. "I do not understand why you think the loss of your school should mean that your entire species is going extinct."

"I told you," she said calmly. "I spent four hundred years wandering after I left Mallorca. The only others I found were at Whitecap. But the Congress always gathers in the same place. I thought, if I went there, I would know for sure."

"Do you wish to go there still?" Reverend Lawrence asked. Syrena lowered her eyes and did not reply. Philip didn't press the question, but something in the slump of her shoulders, and the way her hair fell across her face, sent a surge of jealousy through him. It may not have been indecision that kept her from answering, but it was maddening not to know what was going through her mind. Across the room Reverend Lawrence straightened and brushed off a layer of dust that had collected on his breeches. As he reached the door he turned back to Syrena. "Thank you again for your honesty," he said. "I will not tell you stay, or go. But I will say this. I think it is very unlikely that you are the last of your kind."

The door shut with a gentle but decisive _clack_. In the reverend's absence the small noises in the kitchen seemed to amplify. It was suddenly hard to ignore the crackling of dry wood in the oven and the gray haze of smoke that had not escaped through the window. Syrena traced an arc on the floor with the toe of her shoe. Her brown hair covered her face like a dark curtain. Uncertain how to begin, Philip left his spot by the window and sat down on the flour barrel beside her. Unlike her he did not have to stretch for his feet to touch the ground.

"You said once before that there were stories of couples like us," he said. "How did they end?"

"Badly," she told him. "Usually the human involved grew tired of the merling, because human feelings were not made to last as long. Or their longer lives made them corrupt. There was one story about Ludwin the Blind and Jocelyn the Heartless. She cut out his eyes because she thought they would give her more years. Things turned out really nasty for her – awful things happen when mermish blood mixes with human blood."

Philip flinched inwardly but tried not to let it show in face. It was depressing that all their counterparts had set the bar for success so low. "When was the next Congress supposed to take place?"

Syrena bit her lip. "On the night you came to Whitecap it was…two years, eleven months and six days. I was counting back then."

"You really did want to find it." Syrena shrugged, but he did not let her apparent nonchalance delude him. He suspected for her the Congress of Mer was much more than a way to keep track of time, or the need to have _something_ to look forward to. After the destruction of the Fountain, he had come to Barbados to find closure and had instead found a reunion. If they stayed here too long, he would be denying her the chance to find her own reunion. Yet despite the obvious unfairness of it all, he did not want to let her go. "Why did you stop counting?"

"I lost track of time. There were more important things to think about," she said primly. She was still averting her gaze, and Philip found himself possessed by an overpowering urge to grab her by the shoulders and make her look at him directly. He held it in check.

"No one would blame you if you went. They can give you answers that we can't," he said.

She turned to him from behind her brown veil. There was a quiet desperation in her eyes. "Do you want me to go?" she asked.

_No_, he thought. _No, I want to be able to sit next to you now without worrying that I'll lose you in three years. I want to know that you rescued me from the jungle because you cared for me they way I care for you, and not because you were settling. _"You wanted to go, then. Why would you not want to now?"

Syrena averted her eyes again. With a meticulous precision, she began to refold his handkerchief over her lap. "You should not ask these questions. The Congress of Mer has nothing to do with men."

Philip stood and crossed the short distance between them in two strides. He leaned against the wallpost beside her so that his body was directly across from hers. She glanced up, startled at his abruptness. "You could have stayed hidden that day and gone to look for them in three more years. Why did you wait for me on the shore at Whitecap?" he pressed.

"I did not want you to die," she said firmly. It was not really an answer to his question. His life had already been saved by then, and she knew it just as well as he did. Even so, she seemed to find that non-answer easier than explaining why she would choose him over an uncertain but arguably more suitable merman companion.

He leaned closer. He was now so near to her he could count the individual flecks of flour that had settled on her dark curls. It seemed impossible, but somehow even in the smoke-filled kitchen her hair still retained the salt and seagrape fragrance of their first meeting. "Why did you wait for me?" he repeated.

Syrena glanced down at her apron. In what might have been a play for time, she reached for his hand and placed the now-thoroughly wrinkled handkerchief inside his palm. A gentleman would accept the returned gift and leave it at that. While Philip knew this in the back of his mind, his hand instead closed gently around her wrist. When he pulled backwards, her nose almost collided with his. He stumbled backwards in mute surprise; he hadn't expected her to rise so quickly. Then he realized her hand was grasping his arm right back. Without thinking about the consequences, or really much of anything, he pressed his mouth against hers. He felt her chest rise in shock. Then her fingers were digging into his shirt, and she was drawing him closer with her lips and her tongue.

He knew they would have to stop, but his hands continued to slide down her neck, her shoulders, the small of her back. She tasted of mangoes and coconut milk. For a few delirious seconds it was as if they were back on the island off of Whitecap, before the _Morning Mercy_ had ever found them and their lives had gotten so disastrously complicated. Her stomach pressed closer to his. They should stop _now_, he thought, before the temptation to lift her off her feet and carry her outside to some secluded tropical grove became too powerful to resist, morality be damned. She groaned softly into his mouth. It was intoxicating, this feeling that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. It was utterly consuming, and they really had to stop.

He tore his lips from hers, ending the encounter as abruptly as he'd started it. For several seconds they both stared at each other. She looked startled and wild, and Philip could only imagine what his face must look like to her. It wasn't their first embrace like this, but on the island they had always ended with her nestled against his shoulder, and then they would sink into quiet conversation or drift off to sleep. Neither option was available to them in the kitchen. Syrena's face, already quite flushed, burned a deeper crimson. Stuffing his handkerchief into his hand, she brushed past him and hurried out the door.

Philip stared at the handkerchief for several minutes after she left. The blood was pounding in his ears while he remained rooted to the floor. As he waited for it to stop, his only coherent thought was that on one level he'd been absolutely right to avoid letting her fall asleep next to him, and on another level he had been completely and totally wrong.

When the dull pulsing finally subsided and he trusted his legs to move properly, he pushed the door open. It was late, and the downstairs rooms were all dark. They had been conversing in the kitchen longer than he'd thought. While he climbed the stairwell, he thought about what Syrena had said, and what she had not said. If there was another Congress of Mer, they might have the answers she needed to get her life back – assuming three more years of this didn't drive her insane first. And even supposing they did somehow find an answer on their own…It would not be fair to expect her to live only in his world and abandon hers, though it might mean letting her go somewhere that he could not follow. Feeling drained, he opened the door to his bedroom and was surprised to find a folded slip of paper on the floor. He stooped down to retrieve it. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth during his absence. It was burning low, but there was enough light to read by. Philip unfolded the parchment.

_I know your mermaid friend has an acute sense of hearing, and I did not want this to reach her ears. But I must ask you again to consider your intentions toward her, and I urge you to be honest with yourself. Did you wish to marry her because you love her, or because you believe that now she is the only person you can marry? _

_- J.L._

Philip read over the sentences several times until he could repeat them in his head without looking. Then he tossed the letter into the fireplace and stretched out on the bed without removing his clothes.


	9. Chapter 9

He dreamed he stood on the mast again. Dizzy, dehydrated and delirious, and the sun was a cruel mistress. The ropes binding him to the post had cut painfully into his muscles for an hour or two, but his arms had gone numb by the end of the first day. His head knocked against the overhang whenever the ship lurched to one side in the waves. He had gone so long without water, he was starting to forget how it felt not to have a constant burning in the back of his throat. He tried to look towards the sky, because whenever he looked down, the ship was so small and distant beneath him his heart sank to his stomach in a rush of vertigo.

"What did that poor soul do, and how do I not?" From the miles between the deck and the mast, Jack Sparrow's voice floated upwards – Jack before Philip had known his name, when he was just a strange, dreadlocked pirate. _That poor soul tried to save a monster, and he will try again because he doesn't know what else his silent God wants him to do_, Philip thought.

He was very far from home. He wasn't certain how far anymore, only that it was enough to make the distance irrelevant and that it was unlikely he would ever get back. Sometimes when his neck was tired, he glanced down and watched the crew below. From his angle they looked like gold and sunbrowned circles with feet, scurrying across the deck like anxious beetles. If one of them, even just one, were to look at him and see a faint reflection of Christ, he thought it would be worth it. It was beyond wishful to think Edward Teach would come to the faith so easily. Philip knew what god the pirate captain worshiped. He had heard whispers of their blasphemous quest from his hammock in the ship's hull, and its inevitable failure gave him some optimism. They might find a fountain, and they might even find the fabled chalices of Ponce de León, but there was no possible way Edward Teach would ever find a mermaid. During the most scorching afternoons that thought was his greatest comfort: that mermaids did not exist.

The ship rocked to the starboard side, and a shower of sea spray splattered the deck. Philip let his head roll onto his chest. Beneath the crashing of the bow against the waves and the buffeting of the wind on canvas, there was nothing to break the silence of the ocean. _Men were made to love God and their fellow men, not chase after myths,_ he thought. In the chaotic storm his life had become, he was thankful to have at least one truth to anchor him.

* * *

><p>Waking that morning hurt more than usual. Instead of fading gradually into consciousness, Syrena felt as if her body had been yanked from the dream world by an invisible force that turned her bones into splinters. Every joint in her body seared as though pierced by broken glass. For several interminable minutes she lay paralyzed in bed, afraid to move lest the pain explode under her skin. She shut her eyes. <em>It will pass, it must pass, it always passes<em>, she told herself. As the throbbing waxed and waned, she redirected her mind to what she would need to do once out of bed. She had prepared for this the previous evening, knowing that this morning would be different. This morning when she went downstairs for breakfast, they would all look at her knowing precisely _who_ she was and _what_ she was.

She breathed in slowly. Breathing, at least, was something her body could do without difficulty. She had selected the dress she would wear last night, a demure cotton dress with a modest neckline and tiny rosebuds embroidered along the sleeves and hem. It was pretty but simple, nothing elaborate like the purple-flowered muslin she had worn to church a few weeks ago. It would show respect and care for her appearance without making her seem vain. The sort of dress a missionary's wife would wear, she thought. Then, with some depression, she realized that was because a missionary's wife _had_ worn it, or at least something very close to a missionary's wife. Every dress in the room except one had belonged to the late Mrs. John Lawrence. Anything she wore would only remind them of the woman who wore it before her. She let out a tired sigh. Nothing would do but to wear the dress she had arrived in, with the coarse linen bodice and pale green skirt. It was worn and frayed and probably inappropriate, but at least it was honest.

Syrena flexed her fingers experimentally. Short spasms of pain shot down her knuckles. Nothing excruciating, but attempting to pin up her hair was decidedly out of the question. She closed her eyes again and counted to one hundred. When the throbbing cycles had diminished to a level she found tolerable, she sat up. Her head spun for a few seconds. She did know how long she had lain in bed this time waiting for the arthritis to pass. Padding across the floor to the mirror, her reflection looked reassuringly familiar. Her skin was smooth, and her hair had returned to its natural brown, minus a few streaks of white that would probably fade within half an hour. Only the eyes…her eyes radiated exhaustion. _I am becoming an old woman who sometimes inhabits the body of a young one_, she thought. There was no longer any doubt in her mind; this swinging back and forth would sap the life out of her.

A light rap on the door broke her reverie. "One minute, please," she said. After some discussion, she and Philip had decided that if he knocked and she did _not_ answer, he was free to assume something was wrong. Gingerly, she slid her dress over her head and used the ivory-tooth comb to pull the gnarls out of her hair. She did not attempt to braid it or tie it back. She would face the other priests exactly as she had arrived, with only the most basic trappings of terrestrial civilization.

Philip was waiting for her outside. They walked down the first three steps together when she felt her right leg suddenly go numb. She stumbled. Her foot slid down two more steps, but Philip's arms were around her waist before she could fall. "Easy. It's all right, I've got you," he said into her ear.

Syrena let out another exhale of relief. Knowing that he would carry her downstairs to the dining room if she asked, she contented herself with leaning against his arm. They made slow progress to the breakfast table, where the aroma of freshly-baked scones and grapefruits greeted them. The odor of pork sausage made her stomach turn, but she swallowed the impulse to gag. All three men stood when she arrived. In a gesture of gallantry, Julian pulled out the chair beside him to help her sit down.

As she picked apart a cranberry scone, she let Philip retell the true version of their meeting on Whitecap, their trek through the jungle and their escape. After he was finished, she found herself bombarded with a number of questions, ranging from the somewhat-relevant to the completely ridiculous: How did she breathe underwater? _We have gills that open on our necks when we dive._ Did merfolk have countries? _Yes, but they are never in the same place twice. _Was it true that some mermaids clawed out the hearts of marooned sailors and ate them wrapped in seaweed? _No, the eyes are much tastier._

"And once you saw the chalices of Ponce de León, why on earth didn't you just let them sink?" Ephraim asked. He was sitting opposite her in his usual position next to Simon. Julian sat on her right, with Philip on her left. Having to face only two men across the table made the conversation feel less confrontational.

"Because I saw Jack Sparrow at the surface. I thought it unlikely he would value the Black Beard's life," she replied. She thought with some relief that at least that was one of the more intelligent questions.

"So that's why you left," Philip said. "You wanted to be certain Blackbeard died." A note of disquiet had crept into his voice. Syrena frowned. They'd had their disagreements over the better angels of human nature before, but she'd thought at least by that point Philip would have realized the soul of the pirate captain was beyond saving.

"Of course. Didn't you?"

Philip fingered the rim of his china teacup. "No," he said. "There were a few times I thought so, but…no."

"That's nice of you," Ephraim said dryly. "And this is rather awkward. It seems I owe you an apology now." He spread his hands on the tablecloth and leaned forward. "I apologize." He grimaced, as though the flavor of the words had left a strange aftertaste in his mouth. "Hunh. I really thought I would feel better after doing that."

"That's because you were cheating," Julian told him.

"Fine." Ephraim took a deep breath and drummed his fingers over the table. "Syrena. For whatever ordeals Blackbeard dreamed up for you in the jungles of Whitecap Bay, I am truly sorry. I'm fairly certain he only knew about your island because I told him about it." Leaning backwards, he began twisting the blunt end of his fork over the tablecloth. Aside from feeling completely confused, Syrena harbored doubts about his sincerity. He looked more embarrassed than remorseful.

"You don't remember, do you?" Philip remarked quietly.

Ephraim forced a dark smile. "I'm afraid not. But I think I managed to put most of the pieces together. It would seem about a year ago I did something very stupid. I overheard a conversation between Blackbeard and your old reverend. A conversation about angels and a certain cypress tree in our forest. Apparently I thought it would be entertaining to outlive all my peers and turn into some sort of Hebrew demigod – no, on second thought, that wasn't stupid at all. The stupid part was not stopping to ask the right questions first. I believe that was my job on Blackbeard's ship. Sitting down with people and…asking questions."

"In other words, he used to torture people for a living," Simon translated.

"That's enough," said Julian.

"Here." Ephraim rolled up his sleeve to reveal a tiny jet-black swirl on his forearm that vaguely resembled a snail shell. "I believe this is the price of a thousand years from the garden of angels just beyond our backyard. A bit of burnt soil and every memory of my former life as Blackbeard's pet researcher." He grimaced again. "My punishment is that now my earliest memory consists of waking up flat on my back with an excruciating headache surrounded by eight hygienically challenged numbskulls with swords. Naturally I didn't have a clue what I'd done to get there, but I distinctly remember thinking it wasn't worth it."

"How did you find out about your…" Philip cleared his throat, "real vocation?"

"In a dangerous situation, it's generally wise to pretend to know more than you actually do." Ephraim took a swallow of coffee and pulled a bitter face. "Fortunately my eight companions were all terrified of me – I can't imagine why—so that wasn't very hard. As far as I know, none of them suspected that I had no idea who I was or why they were calling me _sir_. Once I'd convinced them to sod off, I started crawling on the ground looking for footprints to retrace my steps. I'm sure I looked like a complete lunatic. And that's about where I was when your reverend discovered me, Philip."

A shadow darkened Philip's brow. _This is the reason your reverend died_, Syrena thought. Ephraim glanced at Philip and lowered his eyes in what might have been a subtle gesture of apology. "Go on," Philip said, which was not necessarily a gesture of forgiveness.

"It didn't take Reverend Anton very long to work out what had happened. He escorted me back to his rectory and explained how the garden of angels worked. I'm sorry to say I spent most of the interview staring at his neck thinking about exactly which pressure point would make him fall to his knees in total agony. It was a very odd feeling, since at the time I had no idea why I would even know something like that that." A moment of awkward shifting followed, during which Syrena suspected they were all suppressing the urge to move their chairs back from the table.

"I can't really account for what happened next," Ephraim said. "Somehow I got it into my head to go back to the _Revenge_. Fact is I'd enjoyed the feeling of terror I'd inspired in the other men. And as far as I could work out, my situation there wasn't that bad. I suppose I was laboring under the delusion that I could fool Blackbeard as easily as I'd fooled his deckhands. Needless to say, that part did not go as planned."

"Blackbeard found out his favorite interrogator had turned into a closet amnesiac. He wasn't thrilled," Simon said. "How did you work your way out of that one?"

"Long story involving a bottle of laudanum and a Chinese toothbrush. Reverend Anton, being a kind, forgiving and therefore stupid Christian, agreed to let me back in and sent me here to Reverend Lawrence, where he assumed Blackbeard wouldn't think to look." He raised his hand to the back of his mouth as though stifling a yawn. Blinking a few times, he shook his head. "But honestly, if I was the one who told him how to find Whitecap Bay—which of course I would have no recollection of doing—I am sorry."

Across the table, Philip folded his arms. Syrena could only imagine the thoughts that must be racing through his head. "You're despicable," he said finally.

"Philip-" Julian warned.

"You admitted it yourself," Philip shot back, ignoring Julian. He was leaning so far out of his chair he was practically on his feet. Syrena had rarely seen him so incensed, and it was a rather terrifying sight to behold. "You're not here because you've reformed, or because you want to atone for all the innocent lives you ruined. If you'd had the opportunity, you would have been right there slaughtering on the beach with the rest of them, you base, hypocritical _coward_."

Ephraim's eyes hardened. "Spare me your self-righteous sermonizing. You don't have the right to talk about ruining lives, considering the spectacular way you ruined the life of the girl sitting next to you."

"That isn't fair," Syrena interrupted. Her fists clenched around her napkin underneath the table. She could not say why, but it bothered her to hear someone else berating Philip on her behalf.

"Yes it is," Ephraim returned. "He just doesn't know why."

"Then please," Philip said coldly. "Enlighten us."

To his credit, Ephraim did not appear smug. "Strange thing about the garden of angels. It takes away memories, but not knowledge. In other words, when I woke up I could recite all sorts of useless trivia and had no idea how I'd learned any of it." He crossed his fingers around his coffee mug. "I can tell you, for example, what would make a five-hundred-year-old mergirl forget that her body is not supposed to age."

Philip leaned back, suspicion still flickering dangerously out of his eyes. Ephraim tilted his mug so the dark liquid kissed the rim. "It wasn't the tear. It was the name."

The corners of her mouth began to quiver. Syrena fought very hard to keep a straight face, but it turned out to be too hard; a soft snort escaped before she could help it. She cleared her throat in a useless but polite attempt to cover herself. "Ephraim, that's ridiculous. What Philip called me in the jungle was a joke—Philip, I'm sorry, it was. My name is-"

"Incomplete," Ephraim interrupted impatiently. "You explained that. You never learned the full version of your name. And did it honestly never occur to you to wonder why after five hundred years your scales never turned from coral to gold?"

She blinked, feeling the furrow in her eyebrows deepening. "That's not…that isn't relevant at all."

"You're wrong," Ephraim told her. "Don't bother asking how I know; it probably involves something messy and unethical with long, sharp objects. Bottom line is there are things they don't tell you until you're a century old and you receive your full name. One of them is this: Those of mermish blood cannot reach full maturity until their names are finished. Without a complete name, _you will never grow up_."

"But I am grown up," Syrena said. She was beginning to find this conversation exasperating. She looked at Philip for support, but to her surprise he was sitting up straighter and was staring at Ephraim with rapt attention. That he could switch allegiances so soon deeply irritated her. "This is absurd. I know I am grown up, and it is very rude of you to tell me I am not."

"You're grown up because you have a complete name now," Ephraim said, enunciating each word separately, as though speaking to an exceptionally slow-witted child. On some level he seemed to find laborious explanations like this one beneath him. "Before you met Philip, you had your unfinished name, and it kept your body whatever age it was the last time you learned it. You were frozen in a state of perpetual adolescence. That is why your scales remained coral for so long. Without someone who knew your entire name, you probably would have remained that way forever – immortal and immature." Syrena bristled, but either he didn't notice his words had offended her or he didn't care.

"Philip gave you a complete name. Short, yes, but it was enough to break your state of limbo and let you grow properly again." Ephraim favored Philip with a wry smile. "The moment you named her, you made her mortal."

Philip sat back in his chair. He looked stunned. Syrena clenched her fingers more tightly around her napkin. As endearing as she found Philip's deep sense of personal responsibility, at the moment she did not think she could bear hearing him apologize.

"Suppose you're right," Julian said slowly. "That doesn't explain why having a different name would provoke what she's going through now."

"Yes, there's the rub," Ephraim said grimly. "You gave her a new name, but she never _lost_ the old one. She's stuck with two names, one trying to make her age like a normal woman and the other insisting she doesn't have to. Now – to put it in the simplest terms – they're fighting." He paused. "I would guess that during those times when your body jumps forward, your mortal name is trying to gain the upper hand and…overcompensates."

Syrena blanched. The idea of two invisible appellations turning her body into a battlefield did not sit well with her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Philip rolling the bottom edge of his china cup, now empty, across the tablecloth. His jawline had tightened, as though something unpleasant were stuck in his throat. "Once one name wins, what happens to her then?" he asked.

"Difficult to say. They could fight forever," Ephraim replied. "The only way to put a stop to it, aside from letting them battle it out, is to erase one. But you'll have a hard time finding something that can do that. To wipe out a name is considered evil and unnatural, so only something evil and unnatural could do it. I understand those words are more or less interchangeable where you're from," he said with a brief nod in her direction.

"Yes," Syrena answered.

"Then again, a creature who can age a thousand years in a day is also something unnatural—don't look at me like that, Philip. I'm stating a fact."

"I understand that," Philip said with what sounded like forced politeness. "All the same, I would prefer that you not refer to her as a _creature_."

"No, you'd prefer I call her a woman. I think we've all indulged that delusion long enough," Ephraim returned. "The fact is she's a coldblooded sea siren. She can't even drink fresh water, and you thought giving her an English name and teaching her to read and walk would somehow make that disappear. The result is that now, thanks to you, she's even more abnormal than she was before. That won't change until both of you open your eyes and stop playing dollhouse."

* * *

><p>Philip and Ephraim maintained a cool silence for the rest of the morning. The fact that they were kept indoors by a torrential downpour, which promised to be the last of the rainy season, made this a much more awkward affair. The house, Syrena thought, was unfortunately not <em>that<em> big. Feeling restless and bored, she tried to occupy herself with a book of sonnets but gave up after ten minutes. Ephraim's acerbic remark about her reading had stung. It was small comfort to think it was a little hypocritical of him, considering that he had been the first person to offer to teach her to read at all. Still, even that was less disturbing than what he had said about her earlier. She had known her condition was bizarre, but _unnatural_ and _evil_ had not crossed her mind, and to hear Ephraim say it so bluntly was a harsh awakening.

Frustrated, she threw the book across the room and listened to the satisfying thud it made against the floor. Crossing her arms over her knees, she tried unsuccessfully to convince herself she was being oversensitive and stupid. She ought to be happy with the way the conversation had gone. These nauseating jerks across time did not have to last forever, and the solution was close, so very close. All she and Philip needed to do was step outdoors and go back to the wild where they belonged. Staying in this house had never been their intention. Kind and well-meaning as their hosts were, she was certain Philip also secretly ached to return to their isolated, unregulated lives. In a short time everything would return to the way it was before…She waited for the inevitable sense of relief to start coursing through her veins, but instead she felt an icy dread.

"Do you find Shakespeare that offensive?" Philip asked from under the library door, where he had stooped to retrieve the book.

"No. It was decent," she said. Philip contemplated her from the threshold. He looked puzzled, or amused. Syrena thought perhaps she should defend her choice of words. "A few phrases were quite beautiful. He made a good effort."

"That's very generous of you," Philip said, without irony. She waited for him to cross into the room, but he remained in the doorway. Apparently he did not know how to bring up the uncomfortable reality now hanging between them, and she could not think of another polite reply that did not sound inane. She was not good at small talk.

"Syrena, I would like to-" he began. He cut himself off with an exhausted shrug. "I suppose I should stop calling you that. It was thoughtless."

"It was kind," she corrected him.

"I was tired and angry, and not just on your account." He rotated the book a few times in his hands, appearing at a loss for anything else to do with them. "I assumed your feelings in the jungle were the same as mine. That was a mistake. I would like you to know that I won't blame you if you decide to erase the name I gave you."

Something tight and painful constricted in her throat. Philip almost seemed to expect her to erase her mortal name._ Of course he would want someone young and pretty forever_, she thought, though she knew this was unjust. Something told her this was not the reason she suddenly felt sad.

"You'll go with me?" she asked, before she could stop the words from escaping. The look of relief in his eyes was almost enough to make up for the embarrassment of the question. He stepped into the library and joined her by the windowsill.

"We're snails, you and I. We carry our home with us," he said. A warm glow settled in her chest, which did not erase her uncertainty, but it made it more bearable. They would leave the mission house together, a place both of them appreciated but neither felt truly at home.

"You know, you shouldn't believe everything Ephraim says," Philip told her. "Time and experience make adults, not words. A girl couldn't have endured what you did."

"Perhaps not," she replied, wondering why she did not feel entirely convinced. It occurred to her that of all the things she had yearned for during her centuries alone, she had never once yearned for a lover. In Whitecap she had occasionally caught glimpses of Tamara's caresses, something the older mermaid bestowed on mermen and mermaids alike. She heard their gasps and sighs—which were never nearly as quiet as they imagined—and they always left her feeling rather annoyed. The rush, the heat, the faint tingling on her collarbone and just below her stomach, those sensations had never entered her remotest daydreams, and then she understood the reason for her melancholy. For five hundred years she had been a girl with a girl's feelings…and should she lose the name Philip had given her, her body would return to being a girl. The entire situation seemed unfair, that she should be faced with such an impossible choice.

Impulsively, she sat up straighter and let her hand drift to Philip's face. Her fingers slowly began to trace the bridge of his nose, the line of his jaw, the rough curves around his mouth, pondering whether she could somehow capture the feelings they inspired and store them in some secret corner of her mind.

"Don't…Syrena, don't." He grasped her hand and lowered it away from him. _It was perfectly fine for you last night_, she thought, and it was difficult to bite back the retort.

"I am sorry," she said. Her face flushed, and she searched for a way to break the awkwardness. "We don't have to leave right away," she offered.

Philip chuckled softly. "I don't imagine we can. Not unless you know off the top of your head where to find something evil and unnatural, and how to convince it not to kill us once we do."

"I told you. Any of your species will do," she reminded him.

"Right," he said tiredly.

Syrena bit her lip thoughtfully, while her mind wandered somewhere else. She remembered the first time she had seen those tired eyes, staring listlessly over the side of a small boat adrift in a black sea. He had not made a distinct impression on her then. She had seen other men like him, unfortunate sailors come to their waters to court death, and she could not recall feeling sorry for any of them. Somewhere between that first indifferent glance and the moment he emerged, half-drowned, underneath an exploding lighthouse, something must have changed. Some force compelled her to pull him out of the way, something that transcended the fact that back then she was still a half-named girl unable to conceive of romance. She could not shake the feeling that if she could only remember _what_ that was, she would not feel so horribly lost in time.


	10. Chapter 10

_The Boar's Head Carol is a 16th-century English song, so I assumed the lyrics were in the public domain. Descriptions of the maengu (minus the naming mythology) were borrowed from the Bakweri of modern-day Cameroon. And...sorry for the five-month hiatus._

* * *

><p>Christmas in Barbados was a noisy affair, Philip thought. Taking advantage of a lull in the conversation, he ducked into a far corner of the parlor and threw open the window sash. The candle on the sill flickered and died, but the rush of night air was a welcome relief. Winter had slipped unobtrusively into the West Indies, bringing a string of dry winds from the sea. After growing up underneath the icy cliffs of Cornwall, waking up to a warm, fragrant and thoroughly tropical Christmas had been incredibly disorienting. But that wasn't half as disorienting as the jungle of people who had overtaken the parlor and dining room, chattering like dozens of attractive, unintelligible birds.<p>

Philip knew most of them hadn't come last year and probably wouldn't come next year. Reverend Lawrence invited his congregation to a gathering after church on Christmas Day as a matter of tradition. But from what he'd heard, the offer had been politely declined so often it had turned into lip service. The holidays were a twelve-day festival interspersed with balls and dinners hosted by wealthier families, with the largest on New Year's Eve and Epiphany. As a rule no one celebrated Christmas on the twenty-fifth of December. But this year was an exception, and Philip had little doubt as to why so many had flocked to the mission house tonight. They had come to see the beautiful savage in crimson.

In that at least they were not disappointed. Syrena had worn a vibrant red silk trimmed with silver, with three layers of sleeves around her elbows. A crystalline poinsettia glistened from her hair which, despite her efforts to pin it up, fell in an unruly cascade of dark curls down her neck. She did not wear gloves, but she was holding a white lace fan in her fingers. The candlelight gave a translucent glow to her complexion as she opened and closed it uncertainly across her bodice. Syrena was not beautiful; she was stunning.

"This is not a good time to be antisocial, young Swift. Not if you want to protect your territory." Silas Ramsay sidled up beside him. The older man's voice was a bit louder than usual, and his face was flushed—evidence that the punch had been liberally spiked with rum, Philip thought. "How long has it been since she came here? Six weeks?"

"Eight," Philip replied.

"Eight. My word," Silas murmured. "And tonight she looks almost genteel. Though it takes more than a fancy dress to make a lady. You know-" He leaned closer to Philip, speaking in what he clearly thought was a whisper "-there's been plenty of speculation about the girl's background. Not that I'm one to listen to rumors. Just thought you should be aware. Some folks are saying before she came here, she lived on a deserted island like one of the heathen natives."

"It's true. She was stranded for ten years before we found her." Philip didn't see any reason to deny what was fact. At the moment, Syrena was standing in a loose circle with half a dozen women whose ages ranged from eighteen to eighty. Although he could hear only pieces of the conversation, they looked relaxed, and Syrena—if not entirely relaxed—looked about as comfortable as she ever did look in large groups. If they thought ill of her, they were hiding it well.

"Well, at least she's not one of those simpering coquettes. Lord knows I have enough of them in my house. My eldest girl can't keep her eyes off the officers, and Elinor will go exactly the same way if she doesn't stop reading so many damnable _novels_."

_No. Elinor is too plain to be a coquette, and she knows it,_ Philip thought with a pang of sympathy. Elinor would never possess her sister's talent for coy flirtation, and she was sensible enough not to try. But fifteen was a very young age to have to shoulder that knowledge. It was not surprising she had chosen to disappear behind a volume of poetry tonight, in the same corner of the parlor he had just abandoned.

"The real pleasure of courtship is in the chase, you know," Silas continued affably. "Coming across something beautiful and wild and working out how to tame it. Lord, what I wouldn't give to be twenty-six again!"

A sequence of bars on the clavichord spared Philip the trouble of replying. It was just as well; the heat of so many warm bodies had made his brain so muddled he doubted he could have thought of anything tactful. Julian invited him forward. Philip deflected. It seemed foolish, but he didn't want to completely abandon Syrena to the socialites. It wouldn't be appropriate for him to step into a women's circle, but at least he could watch over her in case anything upset her. As Silas Ramsay wandered toward the dining room, Philip maintained his position near the window, observing the conversation as bits of it drifted to his ears.

"…from Mallorca. You must be quite homesick. Are things very strange for you in Barbados?"

Syrena weighed her answer for several seconds. From his angle, the shadows of mistletoe and lace from her fan dappled her face in grey leaves. "Yes. Washtubs are strange," she said after a pause. "I don't understand their purpose. They're very uncomfortable, and there's no room to swim. An island like this has so many perfectly good pools for bathing."

The young woman in grey who had posed the question looked flustered. She glanced briefly at the rest of the circle, but no one came to her rescue. "To swim in a natural pool—well, it's hardly something I would…"

"You don't know how," Syrena said, her eyes widening in an expression of sympathy. "It's all right. It's never too late to learn. I am sure any of us could teach you."

The entire circle began to look uneasy, now that Syrena had ingenuously dropped the topic in their laps. An older woman, probably in her early forties and dressed in an elaborate amber brocade, leaned closer to Syrena and said, "Actually, dear, in Barbados swimming is a very rare accomplishment for a lady. You should be proud if you've mastered it. Most girls are quite hopeless."

"Yes, did your mother teach you, or did she hire a governess?" A ripple of laughter followed, during which Philip doubted Syrena realized she was being quietly mocked. He saw her lips move in reply, but he couldn't make out her response before the sound of Julian's bass and Simon's tenor drowned it out.

_The boar's head in hand bring I,  
>Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary.<br>And I pray you, my masters, be merry,  
><em>_Quot estis in convivio._

_Caput apri defero__,  
><em>_Reddens laudes Domino__!_

_The boar's head, as I understand,  
>Is the rarest dish in all the land,<br>Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland  
>Let us <em>_servire en cantico._

_Caput apri defero,__  
><em>_Reddens laudes…_

Syrena's group migrated away from the clavichord toward the window, making it easier for Philip to pick up their exchange. So far none of them seemed to have noticed him. Since moving would only risk drawing attention to himself, he directed his eyes back towards the clavichord and tried to look disinterested, keeping Syrena in his peripheral vision. A cursory glance in the corner told him he was not the only one eavesdropping. Elinor Ramsay remained riveted to her book on the sofa, but her eyes did not appear to be moving, except to occasionally flit upwards.

"…seem to recall you saying your father was a sailor. Was he a merchant?"

"A privateer," Syrena corrected politely. Philip felt a wave of admiration for the ease in which the lie slipped off her tongue. In the span of a few weeks, she had become thoroughly fluent in her concocted history.

"Your poor mother. I don't suppose you saw him very often," remarked the woman in amber brocade.

A trace of a smile played on Syrena's lips. "Often enough. For both our tastes, I think."

"At any rate, I suppose she must have raised you Catholic. Being of the faith herself, it's only natural she would bring you up under the old superstitions." The amber woman looked Syrena over, but not with a critical eye. Being born Catholic was a misfortune she could not help, something to be regarded with pity and understanding. She looked surprised when Syrena shook her head vehemently.

"She wasn't Catholic. She ran a cantina."

The amber woman looked perplexed. She frowned, this time with a trace of disapproval. "I'm afraid I don't understand. There are no Protestants in Mallorca, who else could have…" Her voice trailed off and Syrena, equally perplexed, did not offer a response.

"She means it must have been very difficult for your parents to find a church to marry in," the girl in grey explained tactfully. The woman in amber looked relieved; Syrena looked positively mystified. She crinkled her eyebrows.

"They weren't married in a church. They were married in a cantina. That was—that was where they lived."

"Yes, of course. The ceremony, though. Didn't they go to a church to exchange vows?"

"What? Oh, no. What an incredible idea." _She thinks the ceremony of marriage is optional_, Philip realized. Then he was surprised that possibility hadn't occurred to him sooner. He had made such an effort to avoid the topic, it was a small wonder her ideas about it were so off the mark. "I'm certain none of your parents thought they had to marry in a church," Syrena said.

At first, the stunned silence that followed seemed only to puzzle her. Philip's mind began to race. She had committed a serious _faux pas_, and though she didn't realize it yet, she would soon enough. In a single sentence, she had implied that all the women around her were bastards. Rather awkwardly, the amber woman took Syrena by the arm. "My dear," she began, leading her in the direction of the sofa, "I don't believe you're quite fit for civilized company yet. Now, it's obvious you meant no harm, but there are certain things you cannot say. Your mother clearly did a poor job with your upbringing, which is no fault of yours-"

Syrena blinked and stared at the floor. She seemed conscious of the fact that she had messed up but was at a loss on how. "My mother was an honorable woman," she said.

"I'm sure she was, and I'm sure she did her best. But she and your father, well, they weren't…their union was not legitimate, was it? I suppose it's only to be expected, when a child grows up in such a…_rustic_ environment, for it to leave a certain roughness in manners."

Philip's feet started carrying him forward before he was even aware of it, much less what he planned to do afterward. A sharp jerk on his shoulder arrested the motion. "Don't. You'll just make it worse," Ephraim said quietly into his ear.

"Get off," Philip told him.

"Lower your voice. These people aren't pirates, and you're not yourself. Get a _grip_."

"…simply need more time. Otherwise one day you'll carelessly insult people who aren't as forgiving." The amber woman did not seem to have realized that Syrena had stopped walking. Her face had gone horribly pale, and she was beginning to sway on her feet. By now most of the guests were chatting quietly again, evidently trying their best to put her blunder behind them. _She needs air_, Philip thought; it was perverse how after one slip in etiquette everyone seemed determined not to notice her.

As she neared the sofa, her ankles buckled. Elinor's book tumbled to the floor as she sprang from her seat, which was fortunate; if she had waited a moment longer Syrena probably would have fallen right on top of her. "Syrena, your eyes…"

Finally turning to look, the amber woman appeared surprised at her charge's condition. Syrena doubled over. Her left hand groped for the arm of the sofa, and Elinor caught her around the waist. Philip thought the older woman looked a little too relieved to turn Syrena over to someone else. Her arm wrapped around Syrena's bodice, Elinor began to guide her out of the parlor. Philip wrenched his arm out of Ephraim's grasp. It required less effort than he had expected, which meant either he had grown stronger or Ephraim had relaxed; at the moment Philip didn't much care one way or the other.

"Philip, I cannot see," Syrena whispered urgently as he slid his arm under her elbow.

"You're only blacking out. We'll take you outside, where you can breathe," Elinor interjected, continuing to propel Syrena toward the front door. Philip had his own suspicions about this, which he thought best to keep to himself. An awkward threesome, they maneuvered elbow in elbow through the door and around the side of the house. Philip was grateful the moon was three-quarters full tonight; otherwise they all would be as blind as Syrena. The ground sloped about thirty feet from the house, where a small stream bubbled around the reverend's garden. Elinor stopped. Before Philip was aware of what she was doing, she had swirled her handkerchief in the water and wrung it out.

"It's all right, really, it's just too hot inside, you need to cool down, here-" Elinor pressed the damp kerchief to Syrena's temple. Syrena let out a sharp hiss. Elinor gasped and stumbled backwards, dropping her kerchief on the grass. At first Philip thought she was only startled, but he soon realized the grave mistake she had made. As Syrena's hand had flown to her face, her mouth flared open. Two tiny but unmistakable fangs had replaced her canine teeth. Elinor swallowed. "Too fresh?" she ventured.

Lockjawed and clutching her temple, Syrena nodded. "Here," Philip said. Carefully, he pried her hand away and used his own dry handkerchief to wipe off the droplets biting into her skin.

"Sss-sorry. So sorry," she whispered through clenched teeth, her voice still managing to come out as a hiss.

"It wasn't your fault," Philip told her. To his left Elinor wrung her handkerchief out on the grass. In the dark it was impossible to tell what emotions were passing across her face. "You don't have to be scared," he said in a gentler tone.

"I'm not scared. I'm not scared at all," she said quickly. A pause, then, "You need saltwater, don't you?"

Syrena rubbed her eyes. As she dropped her hand, Philip saw her hazel irises were unfocused, and her gaze drifted to a spot beyond his shoulder as she spoke. "I need…turmeric tea. There's a small jar in my room. And there should still be…hot water. On the stove." Elinor leaned forward attentively. As she started to rise, Philip put a hand on her shoulder.

"I'll go. I know where it is," he said. He would be faster, and it would arouse suspicion for someone of Elinor's status to be seen brewing tea in the kitchen. "Unless you'd rather go," he added, considering suddenly that Elinor might feel uncomfortable alone with a mermaid.

Elinor shook her head. "No, I'll—I'll stay."

Philip gave Syrena's shoulder a light touch and turned back toward the garden. With the moon behind it, the enormous tamarind tree beside the house glistened with an unearthly, pearlescent glow. As he approached the house, he listened for sounds of people stirring inside. The rooms set aside for guests were all in front, including the large dining room and parlor. He entered through the back door, where his entrance would more likely go unnoticed. As he ducked into the library, he noticed that the door leading into the music parlor had been left ajar. His hand hovered over the stair rail. He was about to walk upstairs, but an unshakable impulse propelled him toward the door.

The cheerful buzz of two dozen voices emanated from the other room. The music from the clavichord nearby made it impossible to hear any conversation except those nearest the door. Without knowing exactly why, he pressed his ear closer and listened to the low dialogue on the other side.

"…said her family were Moors. The good reverend and his missionary are trying to convert a heathen."

"Don't be ridiculous. The Moors were driven off Mallorca in the thirteenth century. There aren't any left _now_." The second voice was masculine, like the first, with a slight upper-class drawl.

"Don't know about that. A few of 'em could have gone into hiding. Certainly would explain a bit….why she never came to church, for one." Philip closed his eyes in exasperation. That statement was categorically untrue, but there was no help for it. _Syrena the savage, Syrena the bastard, Syrena the infidel._ The labels they placed on her seemed to have no end. _Walk away, _he thought. As disgusted as he felt, that was the wise, the Christian, thing to do.

"D'you believe that story, about them finding her on a deserted island?"

The second man snorted. "Bit of an odor to it, don't you think? There aren't that many deserted islands left on the maps these days, but there are plenty of whores."

Philip's resolve snapped. He pulled the door open and spun the second speaker around, getting a good look at his face. The man was younger than he'd expected, with sharp cheekbones and fair skin that suggested he hadn't spent much time in the sun. A classical sort of arrogance had carved his features, though right now he looked shocked—more than shocked, he looked _frightened_, which surprised Philip. He'd meant to look angry; he hadn't meant to look terrifying. "It's rude to spread lies about people behind their backs," he said coldly.

"And how d'you know they're lies, missionary?" demanded the first speaker. At first glance he looked like he could be a manservant, though he lacked the refinement common to aristocratic households. "You been around her 'er whole life? It's not natural, for a girl to stay shut up like she does. She don't go to church, and she don't eat meat. If she isn't a Moor, than what is she?"

_A lost girl on an island,_ Philip thought. _A lost, homesick girl who's been lost for four hundred years._

The second man regarded him with pity. "Think on it, Swift. You don't know her any better than the rest of us. For all you know, she slept with a dozen sailors before you found her, and she'd have done the same with you if she'd thou-" The force of Philip's fist against his jaw sent him sprawling across the clavichord. An unholy clang deafened the room as the young man's body rammed against the keys.

"Oy! Watch where you're getting clobbered," protested Simon, who had yanked his hands away from the clavichord a few seconds too late. Ignoring Simon, the aristocrat wiped his hand across his mouth, now streaked crimson from a bloodied lower lip.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" He started to pull himself up, hammering down a few more discordant notes in the process. Philip grabbed his vest and pinned him back down against the clavichord. The music stand made a satisfying crack as the other man's back slammed into it. "Take your hands off me," he demanded.

"No," Philip said quietly, knowing he didn't have to speak loudly for everyone in the now deathly silent room to hear him. "Not until you learn to refrain from speaking ill of things you do not understand."

The young man stared at him in bewilderment. "You're bloody mad," he said.

"Refrain," Philip repeated. "Refrain and take back what you said about her."

Another hand grabbed his shoulder. Philip spun around. The fist of the first man was just slow enough for him to react. He dodged right, and the blow glanced wide, leaving the music stand in splinters. Twisting underneath his opponent's arm, Philip straightened and raised his guard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the aristocrat stumble to his feet. The young man slid his hand under his vest and pulled out something silver. The next moment Philip felt an excruciating pain in the back of his head. An explosion of light appeared behind his eyes, and then everything went black and silent.

* * *

><p>The voices were gone when Philip woke up. As soon as he started to come to, he regretted it. The back of his head felt as though it had been bashed by a sledgehammer, and an army of miniature, spear-jabbing Visigoths seemed to have taken up residence behind his forehead. Groaning, he tried to raise his hand to his temples, but his arm refused to cooperate. He opened his eyes. The familiar wooden rafters of his bedroom stared back. Shadows flickered across the ceiling and walls from the orange candle beside the pitch-dark window. Somewhere to his right, a chair creaked. He turned, reluctantly.<p>

"You're back," Julian observed.

"Could I not be back?" Philip asked.

"We could ask Ephraim to knock you out again, but he's with Syrena." _That should upset me_, Philip thought. At the very least it should mildly annoy him. He considered sitting up and dismissed the idea. "Is she all right?" he asked.

"In a manner of speaking. She's no worse than you left her—meaning she's tired, disoriented and still can't see worth a damn." Julian closed the book in his right hand with a dull snap and replaced it on the desk beside the flickering tallow candle. "Meanwhile, I hope while you were unconscious you prepared some eloquent justification for the way you rearranged Stephen de Bracy's jaw earlier this evening."

It was a sign that his concussion hadn't fully worn off, that he had to repeat the sentence three times in his head before knowing how to answer. "They were…they were saying dishonorable things about her," Philip said. Julian looked at him in disbelief.

"You left a blind girl outside, unprotected, in the middle of the night, because you felt the need to _defend her honor?_"

"No," Philip replied emphatically. The sound of his voice, more forceful than he'd intended, made his head throb again. "She made one mistake, Julian. I couldn't let them condemn her for that."

"Well, if your main objective was to make them forget whatever Syrena did, I think you succeeded."

Grimacing, Philip made another effort to sit up. He fingered the back of his head and stared out the window. The sky was dark, but he could still make out the black outline of the tamarind branches guarding his room. Julian rose from the chair and stretched. The floorboard behind him creaked. Ephraim entered, looking strained. Hints of dark circles were starting to show beneath his eyelids. "Didn't intend for you to wake up so soon," he said dourly.

"What happened to the guests?" Philip asked.

"Gone, finally," Ephraim replied. He plopped gracelessly into the chair Julian had just abandoned without asking permission. "Took almost two hours to get de Bracy to leave. You realize he was about to pull a pistol on you, don't you? Nearly wore out the reverend's patience convincing him you hadn't been challenging him to a duel." He kicked his legs up on the bedspread. "The rest of the guests were evenly split on the whole affair. Half of them have decided you're a danger to society, and the other half have decided they're madly in love with you."

Julian raised an eyebrow. "The female half, I hope."

Ephraim responded with a noncommittal grunt that could have implied anything. He rubbed his eyes. "By the way," he added, reaching into his waistcoat, "your lady-love asked me to give you this. For your head." Ephraim tossed a miniature glass phial into his hands. It was half-filled with something brilliantly clear; water, perhaps, but Philip had never seen water glisten like liquid diamonds. "Sea droplets, wrung out of a mermaid's hair. Better use it fast; they're only potent for a few hours," Ephraim explained. Gritting his teeth, Philip brought his fingers to the sore spot a few inches above the nape of his neck. A bit of dried blood had worked its way into his hair, and the area around it was swollen. Carefully, he tipped the phial onto the wound. The icy shock nearly knocked him backwards, but just when he thought his skull would surely crack open, the freezing subsided and the pain vanished.

"Better? Good. Get up," Ephraim said. "There's two girls downstairs waiting for you, and the rest of us want to sleep."

Covering a yawn, Philip made his way unsteadily to the music parlor. He flinched at the sight of the clavichord. It was still standing and looked functional, but the dents and cracks from the earlier brawl were more obvious now that the room was deserted. Inside the library next door, Syrena sat on the hardwood floor with her back to him. He felt relieved to see Elinor there as well, and was unsure if it was because Syrena had not been left alone or because Elinor was a girl.

"Good morning, Philip," Syrena said, without turning in his direction. "It is morning, isn't it?"

Elinor turned around sharply. She hadn't heard him approach, and his appearance startled her. "It was kind of you to stay. Thank you," he said politely.

Her face flushed scarlet. "It was nothing," she murmured.

Syrena rotated her body to face the doorway. "Elinor has told me an interesting story. She says there is a man in her family who knows about merpeople."

Philip furrowed his eyebrows. He knew her father's attitude towards novels, and it seemed highly unlikely that Silas Ramsay had expertise in the mythical or the occult. But for Elinor's sake, he tried to conceal his skepticism. "Really?" he said.

Elinor nodded. "His name is Jonas. He's part of our family. He worked in our fields for almost forty years."

"Elinor, is he one of your father's slaves?" Philip asked carefully.

"Yes," Elinor answered with a small shrug. "He's from west Africa. He says his father was a fisherman, and sometimes if they went out just before sunrise, they would see a school of mermaids in the water."

Philip exhaled slowly. Even assuming this Jonas did have first-hand knowledge of mermaids, the odds he would want to help them were incredibly remote. And Philip did not think he could in clear conscience ask for it. Once, when he first left England, he had an idealistic dream of awakening Barbados to the evils of slavery. But he had learned in less than a week how deeply entrenched the trade in human cargo was in Caribbean life. Most did not even think to question its morality; Elinor Ramsay was living proof of that.

"I would like to talk to him," Syrena said quietly.

Philip rubbed his neck and let his hand drop. "Then let's go," he said.

* * *

><p>It was a three-mile journey to the Ramsay estate. They rode in silence, Elinor on her speckled bay mare and Philip on a brown-and-white stallion, with Syrena's arms around his waist. The stallion had shied away from Syrena at first, sensing that she was not a creature that belonged on its back. It had taken almost a quarter hour of Philip rubbing his neck and whispering soothing words into his ear before he would let Syrena mount. Syrena seemed equally uncomfortable on the horse. She dug her fingers so deeply into his shirt he suspected they were close to drawing blood, though to be fair, the fact that she couldn't see probably made it more difficult for her. It was a relief to them both when Elinor finally dismounted at the edge of her father's field.<p>

They made slow progress across the sour grass and sedge. This was partly because Philip did not want to rush Syrena, whose legs were sore from riding, and partly because they were following Elinor, who knew the route but was hindered by her uncooperative clothing. Unlike Syrena, she was still dressed in her white holiday brocade and had to navigate the brambles under layers of hooped petticoats. More than a couple times he heard a distinct shredding as another bit of lace was sacrificed to the understory. As they approached the wattle and daub cabins, Philip could not shake the feeling of walking into a labyrinth. There were dozens of houses scattered across the grass with no apparent pattern. Evidently Elinor had not been exaggerating when she said her father owned more slaves than anyone this close to the capital. When she finally stopped in front of one and knocked confidently on the door, he was mildly amazed that she knew it was the right one.

Almost a minute passed. A faint creak cut the silence as the door opened, and the silhouette of a dreadlocked man appeared behind the threshold. "Miss Elinor. It is very late for a young girl to be wandering outside."

"I was hoping to speak to old Jonas—that is, your grandfather." In the moonlight Philip saw the man on the other side of the door more clearly. His dreadlocks were tied behind his shoulders with a loose thong. Laboring in the cane fields had made his shoulders broad and muscular, but he looked younger than his deep voice implied—nineteen, no more than twenty. His eyes flicked past Elinor and landed on himself and Syrena. "This is Philip Swift," Elinor said helpfully. "He's a missionary. He's one of Reverend Lawrence's." Something in the young man's face clouded. A chill tightened in Philip's chest, as wintry as the thought that accompanied it. _We are not welcome here._

"Let them in, Eleazar." The voice from the back of the cabin was older and hoarser. Still looking suspicious, Eleazar pushed the door open wide enough for them to enter. Philip ducked beneath the doorframe, his left hand holding Syrena's right. It took his eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness. Eleazar drew back the window coverings to allow a thin stream of moonlight into the house; they obviously did not own candles. Philip wondered vaguely if this was one method Silas Ramsay used to discourage his slaves from holding any sort of nightly gathering. As his vision sharpened, he saw the cabin was split by a coarse sackcloth curtain. While he pondered the curtain, a dark hand began to push it aside, and a man emerged with milky eyes and leathery skin. He stretched an arm toward Syrena. "This one smells of the sea. You are one of the _maengu_."

Syrena stiffened. She took a few cautious steps forward, her right hand reaching out in what, for her, was still total darkness. Jonas approached but did not immediately take her other hand. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated her unfocused ones. "But your folk do not go blind. What are you, then?"

She tilted her chin upward. "My name is Syrena," she said with a touch of pride that sent a warmth through Philip's chest.

"Is it?" Jonas asked. "Is that truly your _name_?"

Syrena nodded. He clapped his hands together and laughed. A gravelly, barely audible laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "A mermaid with two names! How frightening for you." Jonas turned to regard Philip for the first time. "Was this your doing, missionary?"

"It was," Philip said. _It was meant to be an act of kindness_, he thought, but it seemed pointless to say so out loud. Jonas lowered himself shakily into a chair. Philip nudged Syrena in the direction of the dusty table. Her hand found the surface, but as it groped for the edge, it knocked against an earthenware cup and sent it rolling onto the floor. The shattering sound triggered a shrill cry on the far side of the cabin. Eleazar waved away Syrena's apology and ducked behind the curtain while Philip moved to retrieve the broken ceramic. From the other side of the sackcloth, he heard Eleazar murmur, "Shhhh, Rebecca, it's only a piece of pottery. Come out, you have visitors."

Eleazar reemerged with a small girl in his arms who looked one or two. Her skin was several shades lighter than his, and the age gap between them was so wide it was difficult to believe they were siblings, though perhaps they were cousins. Elinor gasped in delight. Eleazar let Rebecca play with his index finger a few moments before passing her to Elinor. As Elinor paced the room whispering to Rebecca, Philip scooped up the earthenware fragments and offered them wordlessly to Eleazar. It occurred to him that he had no idea what to say to this young man, who had probably witnessed more hardship in a single month than Philip had in his entire life.

"We have met other missionaries before you," Eleazar explained in a neutral voice. "They usually talk about Paradise and the rewards of obedience."

Philip lowered his eyes. "I am sorry for that," he said.

Eleazar crossed his arms impatiently. "You are not carrying a Bible. Did you prepare a sermon for us instead?"

A retort waited on his tongue. _No, I am not like the others, _he could have said, or _No, the missionaries you heard twisted the Gospel because they did not understand it. _"Actually, we came to beg for your help," Philip replied.

"I know what troubles you," Jonas said from the table. "The _maengu_ are meant to possess a single name, given after they have lived a hundred years. But you, foolish boy, gave her a mortal name like your own. Now the two are at war." He wrapped his fingers around Syrena's thoughtfully. "Do you find it so dreadful, growing old? It is a natural thing, and not the worst that can happen to a person."

"It is not a natural thing for me," Syrena answered coldly.

"And you, missionary?" Jonas asked, still with his back to Philip. "Did you only bring her to me because you cannot stand seeing her age?"

"No!" Philip shot back. He could feel his temper, which had already snapped once tonight, getting the better of him again; as a result he did not put much thought into his answer. "I brought her here because I can't stand seeing her age _alone_."

Rebecca began to cry, and Elinor tried futilely to rock her back into stillness. Philip regretted his outburst. His anger was supposed to defend the weak and the abused, not terrify infant girls. To his surprise, Jonas laughed again. "Good, good," he said. "If you had answered the way most do, or if you had hesitated, I would have told my grandson to throw you out headfirst. You are different. Foolish, but different."

"You'll help, then?" Elinor interjected hopefully.

"No," Jonas replied. "I could not fix your friend, even if I wanted to. And I do not."

Elinor glared at him over the crown of Rebecca's head. "It doesn't matter what you want. I could—I could _order_ you to help them, and even if you couldn't completely—"

"Elinor, stop." Philip cut her off before she could finish. Besides the fact that she looked thoroughly uncomfortable attempting to pull rank, he knew this would get them nowhere. She was the plantation owner's daughter. Even if they liked her on some small level, they did not trust her. "I think it would help if we spoke to them alone for a few minutes," he said.

Elinor recoiled. His words had hurt her, as he suspected they would. She started to open her mouth again, but Rebecca was squirming fitfully, distraught by all the loud voices that had invaded her sleep. Shifting Rebecca in her arms, Elinor whispered something to her and began to carry her out the door. Philip closed his eyes with relief, and a small stab of remorse. Eleazar watched surreptitiously from the window as she meandered away from the house. Rebecca's cries grew fainter as they wandered aimlessly in the sour grass. When she was a safe distance away, he closed the curtain.

"I did not lie to the child," Jonas said flatly. "I cannot undo what you did. It needs something evil and unnatural to erase a name, and I am neither."

Syrena rubbed her temple. She looked disappointed and tired, but not surprised. "I didn't think you could help," she said quietly. "I came because I wanted to know—I wanted to ask you…" Her voice sounded oddly constricted. She swallowed. "To ask if it's true. If you have actually _seen _merpeople in west Africa."

Jonas regarded her curiously. "The merfolk of my country are different from you. They have woolen hair and gap-toothed smiles. But…yes. I saw them, in the waters beside Mount Fako. Not often. I cannot say if they are still there, but they were there sixty years ago."

It might have been a trick of the moonlight, but for a moment Philip thought he saw something silver glisten out of the corner of Syrena's eye. Her fingers began to shake, and she reflexively buried them in her elbows. Suddenly her entire upper body convulsed as a choking sound caught in her throat. Just when he thought she really was about to cry, she squeezed her eyes shut and the shaking subsided. Philip looked away, aware that this was a part of her he could not share.

"Was the rest of what you said also true?" he asked, when he thought the silence had lasted long enough. "That you're unwilling to help us?"

"Unwilling to help you for free, yes," Jonas replied. "I know what kind of demon is needed to save your sea-woman. I can tell you its name, and where to find it. My price," he said, folding his hands on the table, "is my grandchildren."

Philip's chest tightened. He did not have to ask what Jonas meant. This was not a price; it was a privilege. Jonas was offering him the opportunity to finally oppose the greatest social injustice in the Caribbean. The idea sent a troubling exhilaration through his veins. He forced himself to hold it in check. "I don't like to make promises I may not be able to keep," he said slowly. "What makes you think we have the ability to free them?"

Eleazar crossed the room and sat at the table next to his grandfather. "Under Barbados law, it is illegal for slaves to leave their plantations without written permission from their masters," he said. "It is also illegal under Barbados law to teach slaves to write."

"You see? Your skills are in high demand here," Jonas explained. "You will write a paper with the message that my grandson is picking up a cargo shipment for his master, Silas Ramsay. That will be the easy part." He nodded briefly at the window. "Rebecca's nurse is a Creole woman. She will not help you. Smuggling her out will take more creativity. But you will. Because that is the price of my second gift."

"What about you?" Philip asked pointedly. He was referring to Jonas, but he deliberately directed the question at Eleazar. He wondered why Eleazar was not demanding that they find a way to bring his grandfather as well, how he could so callously leave an old man behind. Then for a flash of a second he caught a tightness in the younger man's jaw and understood that they had already had that conversation many, many times times. His arrival with Syrena had not inspired a sudden dash for freedom. They had been planning this for a while—months, perhaps, and had only been waiting for the opportune moment. When Jonas did not reply, Philip let the question drop.

"You will give us the demon's name and location, in exchange for two lives," he clarified.

"No," Jonas said abruptly. "The demon is the first gift. The second gift-" He directed his gaze back to Syrena and continued, "that is for your _liengu _woman to decide."

Syrena blinked. Her head turned back towards Jonas, though her eyes ended up gazing somewhere over his left shoulder. Jonas took her hand again, and she locked her fingers instinctively between his. "It is not old age that is your curse. It is the endless shifting between years, never knowing what new sickness will attack you next. I can end that." The moonlight revealed a faint prickle of goose bumps on Syrena's arm. "Choose one," he told her. "One relic of old age to live with, until you find the creature that can return you to what you were before."

Philip straightened warily. "How can you do that?" he asked.

"How does not matter," Jonas answered curtly. He fingered Syrena's wrist and studied her face. "You could choose to remain blind. Or you could lose all feeling in the fingers of your left arm, or all your memories from the day before. You have time to think it over."

Syrena withdrew her hand. Cautiously, she swept it across the table until it found his own. Her fingers were cold, and they were shaking. "Prove it," she said steadily. "Tell us first what creature can erase a name, and how. Then I will decide if we believe you."

Jonas pressed his thumbs together and rested them under his chin. "That is easy," he replied. "The evil and unnatural thing you need is called William Turner."


End file.
